


Dumbledore, Please Explain Your Twisted Logic!

by Islander



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cheating, Crack, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Sexual Humor, Shameless Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 156,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islander/pseuds/Islander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dumbledore's putting on a play about the Hogwarts Founders. What else could it be but another excuse to mess with his students and play matchmaker?  Mayhem ensues. Draco is slutty. Harry and Ginny are fighting. Ron tries to be someone he's not. Dumbledore's artistic vision proves a little disturbing. The students get mad, but the parents get madder! Lots of sex and strong language, and even some violence! Oh, and nude wrestling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Founders Play

**Author's Note:**

> Hello folks! I'm new to this site, so I'm posting a few of my old fics as I make headway on a new story I'm writing. This is one I wrote a few years back--it is first and foremost a humor fic, though there's plenty of romance to be had, too! It's sort of AU, though it'd mostly fit in a post-OOTP framework.
> 
> I'm going ahead and rating this fic Explicit. Maybe I could squeeze by with Mature, but you can expect pervasive strong language and sexual dialogue, plenty of explicit sexual content, irreverent & inappropriate humor, some abnormal behavior, and even a some graphic/violent descriptions. All in a day's work! :)

How was it a normal morning breakfast in the Great Hall? Let us count the ways:

Harry was snuggling absently into Ginny’s neck while ignoring the sausage that sat coolly on his plate.

Ron was industriously working his way through a platter of muffins and eggs.

Hermione was holding _Hogwarts, A History_ in one hand and _The Importance of Being Earnest_ in the other; she was busy trying to find oblique comparisons between the two—comparisons that probably didn’t exist.

Draco Malfoy was opening his usual package of sweets and presents from home while all the dieting Gryffindor girls looked at his slim, muscled body in envy and wondered how someone so bratty and spoiled was blessed with a good body _and_ all the foods they had forbidden themselves to eat.

Luna was idly crumbling up the crust of a peach cobbler so she could sprinkle it in her pumpkin juice.

Neville was practicing nervously for the practical Transfiguration test they had that morning, and of course he was failing miserably—he _still_ couldn’t transfigure his thumb into a pomegranate.

            Yes, it was a normal crazy morning at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But someone at the staff table—someone with a long, white beard and half-moon spectacles—was about to turn everything on its head.

            Dumbledore stood up and tapped his goblet with his fork. The glass broke. He hastily shoved the remnants into Hagrid’s lap and stole the half-giant’s goblet, pretending as if nothing had happened. Everyone pretended along with him.

            “I have an announcement to make,” he said. How could anyone sound so solemn yet have such a mischievous glint in his eye? “Hogwarts is putting on a play.”

            A murmur of interest rose from around the hall, and the students watched Dumbledore with rapt attention.

            “It has been a tradition in the past to put on a play about our Hogwarts Founders every other year. Sadly, this tradition has fallen out of practice, so I decided that it was high time to take another go at it. Auditions will be held here at 4:00 after classes on Friday. I hope to see you all there.”

            He smiled that mischievous smile. His eyes glinted that dangerous glint. It was truly a scary look. What in the world was Dumbledore up to this time?

 

**********

 

            “Friday?” Hermione said excitedly on their way to Transfigurations. “Today’s Wednesday. Oh, I can’t wait! You know, I’ve read about the Founders Play in _Hogwarts, A History_. It was written by Charles Durdge in 1641, and it details the four Founders and their path to creating Hogwarts. It’s written in—”

            “I’m gonna go for Godric Gryffindor,” Ron interrupted his friend. “He’s the most macho guy ever. And we’re seventh-years, so we should get the lead roles.”

            “—in blank verse, though Durdge also experimented with passages of free verse, too. Gryffindor is portrayed as a battle hero and an honorable man, which most historians believe he was, while Slytherin—”

            “Actually, _I’d_ like to play Gryffindor,” Harry said. “Though I heard someone mention an evil sorcerer—he’d be cool too.”

            “—while Slytherin is shown to have a darker edge to him. The scenes with the evil sorcerer Xaxis reportedly made the women in early audiences faint—”

            “Maybe Hermione could try out for Rowena Ravenclaw,” Ron suggested. “Merlin knows she’s smart enough.”

            “—Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw didn’t get nearly as many lines in Durdge’s first draft. Alumni from those two houses complained that it was historically inaccurate to skip them, so he made a second draft in 1643. I’ve read the play two times already, so I really, really want—”

            “They’re not listening to you, Hermione,” Neville inserted helpfully. Hermione decided that she was put out by this remark, so she waved her wand casually and Transfigured his right hand into a dumbbell. “Augh! What was that for?”

            “Practicing for the test,” Hermione replied innocently, though with a touch of acid in her voice. “If you’re able to turn it back, I’m sure you’ll pass.”

            Neville wasn’t able to do it. And of course he failed miserably.

 

**********

 

            Draco strode purposefully down the hall towards the Charms room, flanked dutifully by Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy. Actually, Goyle hung back a little; his nose was stuck in a book.

            “This play’s in the bag,” Draco said haughtily. “I’m a Slytherin through and through. There’s no way I can’t get the part.”

            “Of course you’ll get it,” Pansy cooed. She ran her hands gently over Draco’s shoulders then down his chest. Her glaringly red fingernails hovered an inch below his heart. “You are the smartest, _sexiest_ boy alive.”

            “Uh, yeah,” Crabbe said dumbly. “And, uh. . .” he looked at Pansy for help. She mouthed the words for him, and he repeated them aloud: “Yeah, and Slytherin was also… _(what, Pansy?... oh)_ also sexy and smart.”

            Draco soaked up the praise and then waited expectantly for Goyle to join in. But there was silence. The blond Slytherin came to a dead stop, and Crabbe ran into him. Pansy looked at her boyfriend questioningly.

            “Where’s Goyle?” Draco said imperiously. They turned around and saw that the meaty, bristle-headed boy had fallen nearly thirty feet behind them. “Hey, Goyle, get back here!”

            “Yes, Draco?”

            “Call me Malfoy, got it?” Draco snapped. “Only Pansy’s allowed to called me Draco. And what the hell are you doing back there?”

            Goyle looked up from his book. “Oh… sorry, I didn’t realize how far I had fallen behind.”

            “Yeah, well. Get back here, then! And what in Merlin’s bloody name are you reading now?”

            “ _The Waste Land_ ,” Goyle said softly, holding up the slim volume. “It was written by T.S. Elliot in 1922.”

            “What the—?” This came from both Draco and Pansy.

            “T.S. Elliot is an American author; he was part of the Lost Generation of writers,” Goyle explained calmly. “He was a major influence on Ezra Pound, but I have to admit that I like Elliot’s writing a bit more. It’s more challenging to read and thus a great deal more enjoyable.”

            Draco sneered. “Listen, Goyle, you and Crabbe are supposed to be my dumb flunkies! Dumb flunkies don’t go around reading stuff about ‘wasting land.’ ”

            “ _The Waste Land_ ,” Goyle corrected him. “There’s no ‘ing’, except there _is_ a few n’s in there, but I’m not talking about—”

            “Shut up,” Draco snapped. “Close the book, keep two-and-a-half feet behind me, and be my stupid sycophant! Crabbe’s doing an excellent job—why can’t you?”

            “Uh… because I’m not really a stupid sycophant at heart?” Goyle said so meekly that it came out as a half-question.

            “Shut up and do as you’re told!” Draco huffed and started walking again, this time at a much brisker pace. The others had to follow at a run to keep up. Crabbe puffed and sweated like a hippogriff. Pansy hung onto Draco’s shoulder and tried to calm him by whispering soft words in his ear, and of course it didn’t work.

Goyle sighed sadly and stowed the book in his bag.

 

**********

            As the Seventh Year Gryffindors took their test in Transfiguration, the NEWT Divination class was taking a test of their own. It was a really small class, composed of Luna Lovegood, Colin Creevey, Ernie Macmillan, Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, and one shrimpy Sixth Year Hufflepuff who was a real loser. The Sixth and Seventh Year classes were so small they had to be combined, which showed just how unpopular the subject had become.

            “Broaden your minds!” Trelawney sang out her airy mantras. “Look past the mundane and read what is in the tea leaves!”

            “I see a… a book…” Ernie said as he squinted his eye half-shut and turned his cup sideways. “A book, a book, a book… hmm, what was that again?” He looked longingly at his bag, which held _A Comprehensive Guide to Advanced Divination_. “Oh yeah! It stands for intelligence. And there’s an acorn next to it, which is… a windfall. So that means I’m going to… uh, pass some sort of test.”

            Luna peered into his cup. “I see Professor McGonagall in there, too,” she crowed pleasantly.

            “Yes!” Ernie said and started hyperventilating in joy. “I’m going to pass the Transfiguration test today! Merlin, I’m so happy!”

            “I’ve heard it’s a bitch,” Lavender remarked lazily. “I’m glad I’m not doing NEWTs in that class.”

            “But I’m actually going to pass that test!”

            “Really, MacMillan!” Trelawney cut into the conversation. “You’re disturbing the clairvoyance in the atmosphere! Any more of it and there’s one test you certainly _won’t_ pass.”

            Ernie, horrified at the idea of failing a Divination test (even though the course itself was practically worthless), immediately adopted an expression of contrition. “So sorry, professor,” he whispered.

            There was a few moments of silence. The incense burning above the fireplace clogged the air with its heady aroma. It was no wonder Trelawney always acted a bit high. Everyone silently agreed that it was a good thing that the October rains had cooled down the castle, because otherwise this tower would have been unbearably hot.

            “I have a script book in my cup,” Lavender piped up. “I must be seeing the outcome of the Founders Play auditions! If I get the part of Xaxis’s wife, I’ll die happy.”

            “Are evil sorcerers even _allowed_ to have wives?” Parvati asked.

            “Ssshh, guys, the clairvoyant vibrations,” Ernie reminded them. The girls quieted down and returned to their cups.

            “I have a two-headed axe with a dull blade here,” Luna offered happily. “It stands for a violent death, most likely by decapitation or sustained brutal face-pulping. The two heads stand for increased adversity, so obviously there will be many men (or women, as the case may be) against me. The dullness of the blade is inefficiency, which most likely means that my death will be long and slow and therefore filled with a cornucopia of pain. And the leaves stand up quite sharply in the cup, so it means that this death will happen sometime in the near future.”

            Trelawney swooped down on Luna like a bat on a mouse, her eyes wide and her face grinning hugely. “Oh, a long, slow death! I’m so happy for you, my dear! The Sight must be strong with you today!”

            “And I even see the Thestrals in here, too,” Luna put in serenely. “And you’re riding on them. So you’re going to witness my drawn-out, unbearably painful death.”

            “Oh, oh, Luna, yes, how _wonderful!”_ Trelawney was practically in the middle of an orgasm at this point. “Yes, I see it, I see it! You are going to die, my dear! Oh yes, and it’ll be the worst hell ever—see how dull that axe blade is! Oh my dear, _oh my dear_!”

            “But isn’t that bad?” Colin put in hesitantly.

            Trelawney immediately stopped her orgasmic attitude and whirled around to face the unlucky Gryffindor. “Whatever do you mean?” she demanded.

            Colin shrunk back into his armchair, and the cushions swallowed half his scrawny body. “I just meant that death. . . I mean, I thought—”

            “Well, don’t,” the professor snapped. “Such comments block the Inner Eye from achieving its true potential.”

            Her mood was ruined. She slumped back into her armchair by the fire and waited as her students turned their cups about and let the firelight fall at different angles on the dregs.

            The sixth-year Hufflepuff suddenly started laughing. It was a crazed laugh of shock and relief. It was also the laughter of losers. It was a strange, unearthly noise—normally the class would have burst into giggles at its sound, but here in the North Tower it seemed oddly in place. The five students turned to stare at him, not knowing what to say, mostly because they hadn’t quite figured out his name—everybody just called him Loser. And, with his stringy blond hair, gigantic glasses, nasal whine, string bean build, and supremely dorky attitude, the name was highly appropriate.

            “What is it, my dear?” Okay, so _almost_ everybody called him Loser. Professor Trelawney swooped across the room and alit on the arm of his chair.

            “A scepter!” Loser said happily. “I’m going to rule someday!”

            Everyone in the class hastily turned their guffaws into coughs. Someone like Loser couldn’t even find a friend, much less a follower. They made a mad rush to get a look at his cup, but Luna got there first.

            “That’s not a scepter,” Luna told him easily. “It’s a stiletto heel. You’re going to get laid tonight.”

            “Even better!!” Loser was in danger of a heart attack by now.

            Trelawney frowned and stared into the cup. “Idiot boy,” she sighed, her tone curt. “It’s a thumbscrew. You’re going to get tortured to death.”

            Loser’s lip trembled as the smile slid off his face. His laughter ceased as quickly as it had come. “I-I-is the thumbscrew dull or sh-sh-sh-sh-sharp?” he whimpered.

            “Very, _very_ dull!” came the answer.

            Loser’s face puckered up into a truly pathetic grimace, and he began to cry.

            It came as no surprise when Luna ended up as the only person who got an O on the test.

 

**********

 

            That afternoon in the staff room the teachers were taking a break. Snape was drinking a very stiff whiskey while McGonagall nursed a strong cup of tea. At the head of the staff table Dumbledore reviewed the script for the play.

            “The Founders Play, is it?” McGonagall said happily. She actually managed to smile after her hell of a day teaching. “Well, I’m certainly looking forward to it! I remember the play fondly from my own years.”

            “Of course you do,” Dumbledore said calmly. “You were always the prude, Minnie.”

            “What?” McGonagall cried indignantly. Her tea sloshed over the side of the cup and burned her finger. “Ow! What the hell do you mean?”

            Snape smirked at her from over his glass. He loved how McGonagall always swore when she got mad (though _never_ around the students!).

            “What else could you be if you actually like the Founders Play?” Dumbledore asked curiously. “When I was in school, only the pussies and the pricks got the leading roles.”

            “Hey, _I_ got the leading role in my Sixth Year!” McGonagall cried indignantly.

            “Apologies,” Dumbledore said insincerely without looking up from the script.

            The Transfiguration professor sputtered indignantly. “But. . . but. . . you mean you don’t like the Founders Play?” By the sound of it, she found this an incredible shortcoming of character. “How in Merlin’s name could you possibly want to put on the Founders Play if you don’t like it?”

            Snape laughed quietly into his glass. He agreed with Dumbledore—only the prudes and pseudo-intellectuals actually tried to enjoy the Founders Play. He himself hated it with a passion, and he’d been wondering why Dumbledore would ever revive it, especially when it had been the old coot that had put an end to it thirty years back.

            “You don’t think I’d ever put on Charles Durdge’s version again, do you?” Dumbledore said, raising his eyebrows. “You know I hate the man.”

            McGonagall seemed at a loss for words. “But. . . but his play’s a classic. He was one of the first wizard playwrights to use free verse in any great quantity.”

            “Yes, and his poetry is hideous,” Dumbledore said.

            “It’s _classic!!_ ” McGonagall argued, as if her reasoning had any basis in logic or truth.

            “My dear Minnie, you cannot judge a play by its age,” Dumbledore explained patiently. “If you want a good play from the 1600s, read Shakespeare. I read _Romeo and Juliet_ for the 54th time this past year. But you’ve never seen me rereading Durdge’s awful dreck.”

            “ _Dreck?_ ” McGonagall paled at the slander. “Albus, how could you—?”

            “What’s this new play, then?” Snape interrupted her, still grinning from behind his goblet. McGonagall didn’t finish her sentence, for which Snape was glad; her offended attitude was getting really annoying.

            “It’s called _The Quadrangle_ ,” Dumbledore said. “The name refers to the town square in which the Founders originally came up with the idea for Hogwarts, but it also refers to the complex and often confusing relationship that the four of them shared.”

            “Complex and confusing?” McGonagall said, clearly confused herself. “It wasn’t like that at all! Helga Hufflepuff was loyal and hardworking. Rowena Ravenclaw was intelligent. Salazar Slytherin was ambitious and cunning. And Godric Gryffindor was _brave!”_ She spoke the last name with extreme reverence. Snape snorted into his cup.

            “Are you okay, Severus?” Dumbledore said lightly. “Anyway, Durdge’s account on the Founding in the most historically inaccurate version I have ever had the misfortune to experience. He didn’t know _Lumos_ from _Nox_ , and he certainly didn’t know anything about the Founders.”  McGonagall gasped as if Dumbledore had insulted her personally. Her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed, and Snape sensed an oncoming diatribe that he really didn’t want to suffer. So he cut in quickly with, “So who wrote this new play?”

            “I did,” Dumbledore said proudly. “I’m also taking on the casting, the directing, the producing, the scenery, and the lighting.”

            Snape was no longer smiling. McGonagall looked horrified. And Dumbledore stood there, his eyes twinkling insanely behind his spectacles. This was beyond mischief—the old man looked positively feral. And Snape realized—

            This play was _not_ good news!


	2. In Which Some Truly Nonsensical Auditions Are Held

            It was Friday. Classes had just let out, and the students had an hour before the auditions for the play. As the whole school had heard about it, most of the students had decided to give it a go. For the boys, this meant an hour of free time before heading over to the Great Hall; for the girls, it meant an hour of preparation.

            Actually, Hermione employed Harry and Ron in helping her prepare. She spent fifty-three minutes bossing them around merrily, and they (meaning Harry) yielded to her whims.

            “Get me my hairbrush,” she said in a no-nonsense voice.

            “Don’t look at me,” Ron said as he glanced up from the toilet, where he was polishing his Cleansweep. “Real men don’t touch hairbrushes.”

            “For Merlin’s sake.” Harry rolled his eyes and passed her the hairbrush. She attacked her bushy brown hair for a few minutes with the ferocity she had built up by battling Dark wizards. Nothing happened, except the hair bushed up even more.

            “Looks amazing,” Harry lied. In truth, her hair looked awful; he felt it a better use of time to look past her face and examine everything below it (except for the clothing, which was hideous). He really wanted to stare at her hips instead of her hair, but he thought that might be a bit rude. So he compromised by focusing his gaze somewhere in between, around her breasts.

            Ron didn’t say anything, because real men didn’t give girly compliments. He finished polishing his broom and turned his attention towards Harry’s Firebolt.

            “No, really,” Hermione pressed. “ _Does_ it look any good? Do I look like Rowena Ravenclaw?”

            “Of course,” Harry lied again. “You look stunning.”

            “No, really!” Hermione said again, primping in front of the mirror. “I think my hair might be a bit bushy. And did Ravenclaw wear such prudish clothing?

            “Your hair’s flatter than a smear of roadkill,” Harry offered, “and a lot prettier, too.” Two lies in the same sentence! And, since three’s a charm: “If you call _that_ gorgeous outfit prudish, I’d love to see your idea of stunning!” Feeling overly proud of his stellar abilities at deception, Harry leaned against the wall and stared at Hermione’s bum.

            “No, _really!_ ” Hermione cried.

            “Harry, stop ogling Hermione!” Ron cried out as he followed the path of his best friend’s gaze.

            Harry jumped guiltily and blushed. “I—I—I’d never. . .” he stammered.

            “You’re going out with Ginny!” Ron chastised him. “And I’m supposed to beat you up or something if you cheat on her. That’s what any real macho man does, after all!”

            “Shush, Ron. Harry’s only acting like a normal teenager,” Hermione said clinically. “His hormones can’t help it.”

            Harry moaned in embarrassment and backed towards the window, snatching his Firebolt from Ron along the way. “I’m not going to cheat on Ginny! I—I—I’d never look at, er, Hermione…” Being a Gryffindor, he failed at lying worse than Neville failed at Transfiguration… Okay, he _almost_ failed worse than Neville. In any case, Harry wasn’t fooling anyone, and he knew it. So he jumped on his Firebolt, leapt from the window, and then flew back to his dormitory.

            Hermione shrugged and turned back to Ron. For a while the two of them were silent as she stared at him and his Cleansweep. Ron purposefully stopped paying attention to her—that is, he stopped paying attention until she stared at him for a full minute. At long last, he lifted his head and shot her a questioning glance. “What is it?”

            “I need your opinion,” Hermione said. “Do you _really_ think I look pretty?”

            Ron knew girls. He knew what Hermione wanted him to say. Now was the time for him to lavish adoring sentiments on her physical appearance and to generally fluff up her self-image, because she really needed it.

            But Ron wished he didn’t know girls. He was trying to be a macho man—macho men could act all suave, macho men could act all cool around women, but no macho man should actually _understand_ them! Besides, Hermione looked so horrendous that her ego didn’t deserve fluffing. So, bluffing his way, he answered: “Pretty as in how? Am I supposed to tell the truth?”

            Hermione looked quite put out at this. “Of _course_ you’re supposed to tell the truth!” she snapped, jabbing her hairbrush in accentuation.

Any man, macho or no, knew that what she _really_ meant was: “Lie through your teeth, you bastard!”

            But Ron didn’t want to be plain-ol’-macho—he was going for _supermacho_. So: “The truth?” (Here he acted very laid-back as he surveyed Hermione with a cool demeanor) “Hmm, your hair’s a bit bushy, and your teeth could use some straightening. Your clothes look a bit prudish, your shirt makes your breasts look smaller, your skirt should be at least half-a-foot shorter, and, in Merlin’s blessed name, please ditch those tights! You have way too much mascara; I’ll bet it’d start flaking away if you just _blinked_. Your lips are colorless, and they’re thinner than McG’s—put on some lipstick and lip liner. You should put some rings on your fingers so they don’t look so bony. And, boy, do you need to get that snarl off your face!”

            But Hermione could not get that snarl off her face. At first Ron’s honesty had so shocked her that she was rooted to the spot like a tree caught in a particularly vicious cut of Devil’s snare. But she eventually got her functions back, along with a towering temper.

            “What?” Ron asked, hoping he had come over more as a macho man than a super-critical fashion designer. “Was it something I said?” He thought he’d done rather well; the “McG” had been an especially macho touch, because of course any _real_ man would be too easygoing to spend so much time and energy on a name like “McGonagall.”

            Hermione gave him a sharp slap in the face to remember her by, then a firm dose of the silence treatment for the rest of the day.

 

**********

 

            Meanwhile, Loser was running around the Hufflepuff dormitories looking for his clothes. The boys always hid his stuff, and they called him mean names. In this respect, he was very much Hufflepuff’s version of Luna, except he wasn’t sexy, he wasn’t interesting, he wasn’t smart, he wasn’t calm, he wasn’t brave, and his most frequent activity was crying like a baby.

            This was the activity in which Loser was currently engaged: crying (as he ran about the boy’s dormitory, half-dressed and frantic). “Where’s my dress robes?” he moaned. “Finch-Fletchley, have you seen—”

            “—Nope.” Justin answered, stifling a snigger.

            “Oh no!” he whimpered. “Are you sure. . .” But Justin had run off already to let out his giggles. “What about you, Macmillan? Have you seen my trousers? Somebody took them all!” He wiped at his cheek, which was wet his tears. He licked away the salty moisture and stumbled about the hallway as he pulled his shirttails down as far as they would go, so as to hide his pale, bulky briefs.

            “Never in my life, Loser,” Macmillan replied, snorting in mirth. “Look, I gotta get ready for the auditions. See you later!”

            “B-but wait—!” Loser blubbered. But Macmillan was already gone.

            Behind him someone gasped. Loser whirled around and found himself standing face-to-face with Susan Bones. She cocked her head sideways and stared at him in slight surprise. Her gaze started at his disheveled blond hair, then traveled past his askew glasses, his halfway-buttoned shirt, his blanched, bony legs, and down to the long teal socks on his skinny feet. She raised half an eyebrow.

            Loser started to cry as he tried to pull his shirt even lower. “Wh-why-why are you in the boy’s dormitories?” he moaned as his shirt tore along the hem, exposing his dorky underwear.

            “I’m here to meet my boyfriend,” she said coolly. She was dating Edmund Daramont, who was a seventh-year Hufflepuff and Seeker for the Quidditch team. He also happened to be a thousand times less of a loser than Loser.

            “But. . . but. . . “ Loser stammered. “But. . . have you seen my—?”

            “No,” Susan answered shortly. “And you have a hole in your tighty-whities.”

            Then she strode quickly away, as if she couldn’t bear to spend one more second in Loser’s presence. He couldn’t blame her; nobody as beautiful as her deserved to hang out with someone as dorky as him. Ah, if only he was like Daramont or Finch-Fletchley or, best of all, like Cedric Diggory (minus the dead part, that is)! Then he might actually have a chance at winning Susan’s heart.

            But of course, he realized, it was not to be. Once again, he had embarrassed himself in front of her. He began bawling afresh as he stumbled off in search of his clothes.

 

**********

 

            As for Draco, he was always dressed impeccably, so he was actually ready for the auditions as soon as he stepped out of class that afternoon. So at 3:00 he went off to have some fun. This involved entering a broom closet down the hall from McGonagall’s class for a secret tryst with Cho Chang (who had had to redo her seventh year, just like Marcus Flint).

            “Draco, my sweet!” she crooned into his ear. “I love you!”

            “I know, honey,” he whispered back. “I love you, too.” He started kissing her gently on the lips. She moaned and entered his firm embrace.

            “Yes, yes, more!” she moaned softly in his ear. He complied ever so willingly and enjoyed the minty breath-freshening spell she’d cast on her mouth.

            After ten minutes of this enjoyment, he cut it short. “I promised Pansy I’d meet her at 3:15,” he panted as he broke away from her.

            “Mmmm, do you have to?” Cho mumbled against his lips.

            “I’m afraid so, my dear,” he murmured, giving her one last deep kiss. “But just remember that I love you more than I’ll ever love her. Until tonight, darling. . .”

            And, with this sentiment completed, he stepped out of the closet and tripped off.

            If you think Draco’s fun was over, you’re wrong. It had actually just began.

            Once that broom closet was out of eyesight, Draco set off at a jog. He was glad that he had foisted his schoolbags off on Crabbe and Goyle, because otherwise they would have gotten in his way during the sprint. Two minutes and two flights of stairs later, he ducked into an empty classroom in the East Tower to meet with Hannah Abbot.

            “My love, my dear!” she cooed, and she flung her arms around Draco and started kissing his silky blond hair.

            “Am I late?” he murmured into her shoulder.

            “No, no, you’re just on time!” And she began to stroke his chest industriously while he busied himself with kissing every one of her dimples. She moaned appreciatively and untucked his shirt so that she could gain a proper access to his smooth, hard stomach. Draco’s breath caught in his midriff as he felt her enthusiastic fingers work their magic.

            “You like that?” she breathed into his ear.

            Draco nodded eagerly and pushed  her sleeve off her shoulder. His tongue dipped expertly down to taste the bare skin, and she shuddered in forbidden pleasure. Draco smirked and let his blood rise within him as he deepened the lip-to-shoulder kiss.

            Draco allowed himself ten more minutes of this before he broke away from Hannah, whose hands were running along his waistline. “I must leave you now,” he said softly, still trying to regain control of his breath. “I told Pansy I’d meet her at 3:30.”

            “What? Then we still have a few minutes, don’t we?”

            “She’s at the other end of the school, darling,” Draco murmured. “And you know how suspicious she is. Tell you what—we’ll continue this tonight. . .”

            Hannah backed away, disappointed. “Are you sure you hafta leave, Draco?”

            “I must,” he said tenderly. “But believe that I will always love you.”

            And he left the empty classroom and sprinted over to the sixth floor, where he met Euan Abercrombie, a boyish Third-Year Gryffindor, behind a portrait of two ladies holding hands.

            “Ready for some fun, Euan?” Draco growled with a smirk.

            “Yeah!” Euan sounded breathless as he stared up at the blond Slytherin with stars in his bright blue eyes.

            “Then let’s get to it!” Draco crowed. He then started kissing the younger boy fiercely on the lips, relishing the joy of the third texture of tongue in the past half-hour. Cho’s minty taste had mixed with the slightly raspberry-ish scent that hung around Hannah. Now Euan’s signature flavor entered the mix. He tasted of fresh air mingled with house-elf, which was Draco’s favorite kind of meat (he ate it almost every day in the summer!).

            “D’you want to hear what I did in the bathroom yesterday?” Euan said eagerly as he stared up into Draco’s sharp gray eyes.

            Draco smirked at the silly little Gryffindor and ran a finger down the boy’s luscious cheek. “Tell me tonight, big boy,” he purred. “Now’s not the time for words.”

            “Oh,” Euan said as Draco’s lips met his exposed collarbone. “Oh! _Oh_!” And so on and so forth.

            Ten minutes later the blood in Draco’s veins was really pumping as a quivering excitement danced about his body, especially near his loins. His stomach did a few flip-flops of anticipation, but he broke away from Euan, letting the tremors fade ever so slightly in disappointment.

            “I’ve gotta go now, Euan,” Draco crooned. “I’m supposed to meet Pansy at 3:45.”

            “That’s ten minutes from now,” Euan said, pouting. “Can’t you stay a wee bit longer?”

            “No,” Draco said, still breathing heavily. “It’ll take me ten minutes just to find her. So pip pip for now.”

            And he pushed open the portrait and ran in the direction of the supply closet off the Charms room, which was where he was set to meet Marietta Edgecombe.

            Draco’s hand went straight to her breast when they met. She gasped in delight and squeezed his bum, which tightened in response. Then they got down to a serious round of kissing and groping, while Marietta inserted bits of conversation in at the most inopportune moments.

            “You know,” she said as Draco manipulated her nipple through her bra. “I think Cho is meeting someone on the sly.”

            “Ssshh, love, now’s not the time for words.”

            And so they continued their groping for another half-minute before Marietta spoke again. “Who do you think it might be?”

            “Bloody Harry Potter, maybe,” Draco mumbled into her bare belly. He was focusing more on the over-concentration of blood below his waist than on Marietta’s words.

            “No, she can’t stand Harry,” Marietta said as she worked her hand down the back of Draco’s boxers. “When they were going out, he kept reminding her of Cedric, and she’s hated him for it ever since.”

            “Mmm, I’ll bet. Your belly tastes really good today.”

            “Maybe it’s a Slytherin,” she pondered thoughtfully as she worked her finger diligently into Draco’s butt crack. “She’d definitely try to keep _that_ a secret. I mean, we all sleep around with the Slytherins, but nobody’s actually supposed to ‘know’ about it, if you know what I mean.”

            “All I know is that you need to keep on licking and poking,” came the mumbled reply.

            “I _am_ ,” Marietta said. “I’m just curious as to what boy Cho’s meeting this time.”

            “Who says it has to be a boy?” Draco mumbled into her skirt. He was getting really light-headed now with all the excitement, and he was hardly paying attention to what _he_ was saying, much less to what the Ravenclaw in front of him was saying.

            Thankfully, she fell silent as she pondered his words and probed his crack.

            A few minutes later and Draco was _really_ aroused. He wanted nothing more than to strip off his clothes and give Marietta the time, the place, and the bloody everything he had. But he didn’t. Instead he lifted his eyes to hers and murmured, “I’ve gotta go, love. I promised Pansy I’d meet her at 4:00.”

            “Really?” Marietta moaned. “Are you sure we can’t—”

            “I love you with all my heart, but I’m sure. You know how that silly girl is.”

            “Why can’t you break up with her?” Marietta moaned as her lips sought Draco’s. “Then we could complete what we started.”

            Draco drew away from her, then grabbed her hand. “Feel this,” he whispered, placing her butt-picking finger in his lap. “This is a promise that we’ll finish it tonight.”

            He had every intention of holding true to his word. But for now it was not her turn to bring him off. No, he had one last person to meet before the auditions. . .

            He left the supply closet with one last declaration of undying love. Then he shot off at full speed towards the North Tower. Up the steps he went, skipping two at a time, his breath quickening and his arousal hardening. He ignored Sir Cadogan as the knight chased after him, asking him to take the sword from his pants and fight him like a man. Draco reached the stepladder a minute later, and he vaulted up. He entered the room above, where the air was thick with a heady perfume. The curtains were drawn and the lamps turned down to a sultry dimness.

            As soon as the trapdoor closed, Trelawney jumped on him, her eyes wider than her teacup saucers and her face shining. “My dear!” she gasped breathlessly as she began tearing eagerly at her clothes. One of her necklaces popped, and beads flew everywhere.

            Draco joined in the mad race to strip off their clothes. As they did so, Trelawney gasped, “I’ve seen into the future, my dear!”

            “Yeah?” Draco managed to huff as he threw his shirt over a crystal ball.

            “Yes, and I saw _death!!_ ” This last word worked Trelawney up into a right proper state as she threw aside her last bangle, along with her robes and undergarments.

            “Yeah, and do you know what _I_ saw?” Draco said, pausing with his pants and boxers around his ankle. Trelawney stared in unveiled lust as his solid, naked body. He leaned closer to her and whispered, “ _Death!_ I saw myself _fucking you to death!!”_

            “Oh! _Oh!_ ” Trelawney grabbed him by the waist and threw them both into one of the chintzy armchairs. Draco landed on top, and he paused wickedly over her writhing body as he reached to remove his tie.

            “Leave it!” she hissed. “Just fuck me!

“Fuck you _what_?”

            “Fuck me _please!_ ” Trelawney moaned. “Fuck me to _death!!_ OH YES, TO _DEATH!! TO DEATH!! TO DEATH!!”_ The repeated repetition of the word brought her to the brink. Then Draco, with his wild rhythms, pushed her over as she screamed, “ _DEATH, DEATH, DEATH!! OH FUCK YES, DEATH! FUCK! DEATH!!”_

They came off at the same time, and Draco settled into her arms. The both of them, professor and student, were trembling violently. Trelawney was still chanting, “Death. . . Death. . . Death. . .” under her voice.

            As for Draco, he felt very content with this final release. He could do this every day—in fact, he _did_ do it every day. And today was no disappointment.

            But enough of that. It was 3:55. He really needed to get down to auditions, which he told the professor in a gentle, honey-toned voice as he pulled his clothes back on.

            “But I want more!” Trelawney moaned as she spread her limbs wide over the chair.

            “You’ll get more tonight,” Draco promised. He gave her a quick kiss (and a quick grope, which made her twitch) before he vaulted down the ladder and ran towards the Great Hall.

            He arrived five minutes later—just on time, in other words—and met up Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

            “How are you, my love?” Pansy crooned into his ear.

            “Perfectly content,” Draco crooned back. “And do you know why that is?”

            “Why?” Pansy whispered, her breath hitching.

            “Because of you,” Draco replied, his eyelashes fluttering suggestively. “Because of you and no one else. I love you more than all of Hogwarts put together.”

            Behind his back Goyle, who was reading _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ , coughed significantly, but nobody paid him the least bit of attention.

 

**********

 

            All the tables had been cleared from the Great Hall. The platform that normally held the staff table was obscured behind a large purple curtain secured to an impromptu proscenium, which all the students now surrounded. The clock near the Hospital Wing struck 4:00, and everyone perked up their ears and waited expectantly for something to happen.

            And something _did_ happen. Two-and-a-half seconds after the knells had ceased, Dumbledore pushed his way through the curtain and into the view of his students. He surveyed them all with his kindly gaze, though he couldn’t quite suppress the insane glint that danced behind his half-moon spectacles.

            “Auditions shall begin presently,” he said simply, opening his arms wide (one hand held what looked to be a rolled copy of the script). “Form a line, and I’ll let you in one at a time.” Flashing them an old-man grin, he disappeared back behind the curtain, where he had erected a nice little stage, complete with wings, storage space, dressing rooms, and a catwalk in the fly space. Something else was there waiting for him, though it wasn’t something he had magicked into position: a professor named McGonagall.

            “Oh, hello, Minnie,” he said. “Didn’t see you there. Is something the matter?”

            Yes, apparently. She looked highly distraught, with her bun slipping (only slightly, but with McGonagall it made a difference!) and her hands wringing around each other. “ _Please_ let me help with the auditions,” she begged. “Please, Dumbledore, you can’t get it all done in an afternoon.”

            “Yes, I can,” he assured her. “I’ve set my mind to it, and nothing shall move me. Good day.”

            “No!” she begged. “No, Dumbledore! Let me help…”

            He twisted his lips around in a childish display of deep thinking. Then he shook his head. “Nope.”

            “But you _can’t_ do it all by yourself!” she cried frantically.

            “Why not?”

            “You’ll get it all wrong!” she said. “You’ve never cast a Founders Play before! Heck, you’ve never even been in one! But _I_ have.”

            Dumbledore patted McGonagall on the head, rather like an adult does to a toddler. “That’s exactly why you’re not going to help, my dear Min. Now off with you.” He gave her bottom a light slap with the script to get her on her way. “Go find Sybil or something. I’m worried about her—she’s been smelling awfully funny lately.”

            McGonagall flounced away, very much put off. When she had sneaked around the edge of the curtain, Dumbledore sighed, contented, and turned to face his castees.

            One quick glimpse showed that the students had somehow managed to form a line, though they were still jostling and pushing each other. _What nice kids I’ve raised_ , Dumbledore said, feeling no shame in taking all the credit. _But there’s still so much wrong with them, so much fighting and squabbling and general immaturity. Oh well. Nothing that time and a little meddling won’t fix._

            Ernie Macmillan was first. Dumbledore pulled him through the curtain and into the auditioning space. The Hufflepuff looked nervously at the stage setup before his gaze settled on his headmaster, who smiled serenely and handed him a piece of parchment with fine print at the bottom.

            “What’s this?” Ernie said.

            “It’s an audition roster. You just sign it,” Dumbledore said. And Ernie, being the ever-loyal, ever-trusting Hufflepuff he was, signed it like a complete dumb-arse.

            “Thank you,” Dumbledore said. “Now say something.”

            Ernie cocked his head sideways as he pocketed his quill. “What? Say something? Say what?”

            “Anything, my dear boy.”

            “ _Anything, my dear boy_ ,” Ernie complied, taking the answer far too literally. “Now what?”

            “That’s all,” Dumbledore said. “Now shoo.”

            “What?” Ernie said, clearly nonplussed by his auditioning. But he didn’t wait for an answer before he obediently shuffled off, trying to work out what exactly he had done.

            Draco Malfoy was next. Dumbledore made him sign the parchment, then got down to the auditioning. “Do some poses for me.”

            Draco twitched involuntarily at the request. “Some… _poses,_ did you say?”

            “Poses, Master Malfoy, poses,” Dumbledore said.

            “But sir… I’m supposed to be auditioning for the role of Slytherin,” Draco said, his voice taking on an annoying whine. “What’s poses got to do with that?”

            “Come on, be creative,” Dumbledore said. “I’ve got to see if you’re right for the part.”

            “But how can you tell just by watching me pose?” Draco asked, still trying to figure out exactly _how_ he should pose.

            “It’s all in the nuances, Master Malfoy,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “Now don’t be shy.”

            So Draco Malfoy posed. Figuring that Slytherin was probably some sort of sex god, he did some sexy poses. He jutted his hips out while puckering up his lips. Then he lay on the ground with his robes open and his shirt stretched tight across his chest. Then he gazed at Dumbledore with a smoldering scowl. All the while the headmaster smiled serenely while he threw up in his mouth.

            “Simply enchanting,” Dumbledore lied, wishing that he hadn’t eaten such a big lunch. “Now off with you.”

            The rest of the auditions passed in a similar manner. Everyone signed the parchment before Dumbledore set them different tasks. Harry had to put on his best innocent look, which of course didn’t work simply for the fact that Harry _wasn’t_ all that innocent. Ron had to show his muscles, which he did willingly but poorly. Neville had to act cunning, but he just ended up looking stupid. Ginny had to make growling sounds, which she pulled off surprisingly well ( _too_ well for Dumbledore’s comfort). Loser had to look brave (I don’t even want to say how _that_ went!). Susan had to look humble (that didn’t work too well, either). And so on and so forth. Everyone was a bit confused by Dumbledore’s unconventional methods, except for the more-enlightened Luna, who took it all in stride as she performed the split the headmaster requested of her.

            Now Hermione posed a bit of a problem. She was the 212th student to audition, and since Dumbledore had been zipping through the students like hotcakes, she was behind the curtain before the clock had struck 6:00. She accepted the parchment Dumbledore handed her, then immediately went for the small print. With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore vanished the last few words briefly.

            _“These names are in association with the casting of the Founders Play for the 1997 school year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ ,” she read aloud. “Why in Merlin’s name do you need to put that in fine print? What’s the point?”

            “I’m a sucker for fine print, that’s why,” Dumbledore said quickly, wishing she wasn’t so shrewd. “Now just sign it.”

            Perhaps he said it too quickly. She looked up at the headmaster, her eyes narrowed, and gazed straight at him. Dumbledore prayed she hadn’t been teaching herself Legilimancy at any time during her student career. “Why should I sign it?”

            “Because I need a list of everyone who’s auditioned,” Dumbledore said. “Imagine if I assigned a role to someone who didn’t audition in the first place!”

            He waited to see if his answer had passed her radar. It was a tense few seconds, but apparently it had, because she signed the paper and handed it back to him without further ado. She didn’t notice the fine print expanding by one additional sentence as Dumbledore took the parchment.

            Feeling the need to gloss over the discomfort, Dumbledore resorted to lying. “I like what you’ve done to your hair, Miss Granger,” he said smoothly.  “It looks very… illuminating. Very much like someone from the 10th Century.” He purposefully left out the fact that, in the 10th Century, people considered it dangerous to bathe more than twice a year, and that their hair was probably tangled in filthy dreadlocks 100% of the time.

            For some unfathomable reason, though, Hermione, chose to take this as a compliment. “That’s what I was going for, after all,” she said after expressing her gratitude. Dumbledore allowed himself a moment to feel deeply sorry for her (and her hairbrush) before he got on with the audition.

            “Touch your toes,” he said.

            Hermione did so, with a stunningly graceful curtsey. She had obviously been practicing.

            “Now turn around.”

            She spun slowly, very much like a 10th Century person would (at least, very much like Dumbledore imagined a 10th Century person would, though he had little to go on). “Thank you very much,” he said. “Now look smart.”

            _Like Ravenclaw!_ Hermione thought. So she looked smart. Very smart.

            “Wonderful!” Dumbledore clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “Now goodbye.”

            Hermione frowned. “Headmaster, you haven’t auditioned me yet. You’ve just made me do poses.”

            “That’s enough, I think,” Dumbledore said.

            “No, it isn’t,” Hermione disagreed. “You need me to give a monologue or say lines or _something_. I have Ravenclaw’s famous Fireside Speech memorized, if you want to hear it.”

            “Ugh, that nasty old thing?” Dumbledore said, wrinkling his nose as if he could smell the monologue from across the centuries it had been performed. “Let’s try to avoid that topic if we can.”

            Hermione looked crestfallen. “But sir, the monologue is Ravenclaw’s greatest—!”

            “I haven’t time to hear it now, anyway,” Dumbledore interrupted her. “Now run along, go eat dinner. I have to finish up these auditions.”

 

**********

 

            By dinner that evening the auditions were done. The curtain and stage had been taken away, and the tables were back in their place. As the Hogwarts students greedily gobbled down their dinner, Dumbledore stood up and clinked his glass.

            “Attention all students,” he said. “Auditions are complete. I will be posting the results in the Entrance Hall on Monday morning, and I expect the cast to meet me here on Monday afternoon at 3:00. Thank you very much.”

            “Cool,” Harry said to his friends. “I hope we all got the parts we wanted.”

            Everyone else around the room was hoping the same thing. They were in for some rough disappointment, poor devils.


	3. In Which Nobody Gets the Parts They Want

            Harry’s alarm clock screamed in his ear at 7:00 on Monday morning. He hit the snooze and rolled over, planning to go back to sleep for another ten minutes (twenty, if he could wangle it), but it was not to be. Ron, having other plans, yanked open Harry’s curtains and pulled back the covers.

            “Get up, Harry!” he yelled, just inches away from Harry’s ear. He was purposefully loud and boisterous (because, of course, macho men make their presence known), and he walloped Harry on the shoulder for good measure. It didn’t hurt at all, but Harry was sufficiently annoyed.

            “Holy flippin’ Merlin, Ron!” he groaned. “Do you know what time it is? Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”

            “But Dumbledore’s posting the results of the auditions!” Seamus called from the bathroom. “Get your arse outta bed, Harry!”

            Harry sat up, clutching his pillow to his ears. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “If I die and go to hell, it’s going to be Monday morning every single day.” And he stumbled out of bed, catching his copy of _Playwizard_ as it fell from his sheets.

            All the other boys in his dormitory were getting ready for the school day. Dean Thomas was all dressed and just about to leave. Neville was hogging the shower, and Seamus was hogging the sink as he gelled up his hair. Ron was wandering around in his boxers, because that’s what macho men do—though of course he didn’t go around naked, because that would be gay, not macho.

            Harry’s alarm clock screamed again, sending him a mile in the air. “Holy fucking… shitty alarm clock!” he growled. “Sounds like a damn banshee.” He slapped the off button with his hand, and it fell apart like a piece of garbage. “This is _not_ going to be a good day,” Harry moaned.

            Little did he know just how right he was…

            He was molested by misfortune again in the very next half-hour when Ginny came into the room as he was dressing after his shower. “Hiya, Harry,” she said, giving him a grin (admittedly a bit forced). “How’re you doing?”

            “Marvelous, sweetie,” Harry mumbled. Ron (who was still wandering around in his boxers) shot the couple a sidelong glance. That was a rehearsed greeting if ever he heard one.

            “Sleep well?”

            “You bet. And you?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good.”

            “Yes, good.”

            She sat down on Harry’s bed. Feeling something hard under her rear end, she reached underneath her and pulled it out.

            “Oh, that’s mine!” Harry said quickly, and he snatched the _Playwizard_ magazine out of her hands.

            “What was that?” Ginny snapped indignantly. But Harry hadn’t been fast enough; she had seen it. “Why the hell do you have that kind of junk on you?”

            “I…” Harry quickly thought around for a lie he could tell her. “I… what do you mean?”

            “You’re reading porn!” she cried. “How could you?”

            “Er…” A look of desperation contorted his features until the flash of an inspired falsehood lit his face. “That old rag? That’s like three years old or something. Long before we were going out. I don’t read it anymore.”

            “So it just _happened_ to be lying in your bed this morning, even though you never read it?” Ginny snarled. “What exactly do you take me for, Harry James Potter?”

            “I… I…” Harry spluttered. “Look, this is none of your business! Don’t go nosing around in my stuff again! Anyway, what’s the big deal? It’s not hurting you, it’s not like—”

            “It _is_ a big deal, you idiot!” Ginny countered. “You wouldn’t understand, you’re too—”

            “—how’s it any different from what you do with your tampons after they’re used?”

            _“What?”_ The embarrassment of being found out mingled badly with the anger that already contorted Ginny’s pale face. “Who told you that? That’s none of your business.”

            “Lavender did. And you’re right. It’s none of my business. And this is none of _your_ busi—”

            “Yes, it fucking well is!”

            Ron rolled his eyes and retreated to the bathroom to finish dressing. Being a macho man, he wasn’t supposed to know this, but Ginny and Harry would be lucky to last out the next month as a couple. Truth be told, he couldn’t wait for that final break-up. It was annoying as hell, listening to their spatting and their verbal clawing day-in and day-out. They just needed to break it off. Then he could give Harry the obligatory punching, like he had when Harry and Ginny had first gotten together. That’s what every macho man did, after all: When his sister got a boyfriend, he gave the man a punching as an initiation; when his sister dumped the boyfriend, he gave him a punching as a punishment. It was tedious and more than a little tiresome, and Ron wished he didn’t have to do it, especially when Ginny went through boyfriends like she was sampling chocolates. But he was a macho man, and he had an image to uphold.

 

**********

 

            Breakfast that day was a subdued affair. Harry and Ginny still sat beside each other, but this time they didn’t hold hands or talk or even look at each other. Meanwhile, Hermione and Ron sat shoulder-to-shoulder, in intense discomfort, on the opposite side of the table. Hermione was still in a bad mood from Ron’s crack on Friday, and she spent breakfast nursing her bushy hair. It looked like she had tried to slick it down again, and, what with her huge front teeth peeking out from her overbite, she looked like one of those beavers caught in an oil spill.

            Fifteen minutes before class was to start, Dumbledore stopped biting into his tender sausage and stood up. “Attention, students of Hogwarts!” he said, his voice carrying magically to every corner of the room. “The results of Friday’s auditions are now posted in the Entrance Hall.” He gave a wave of his wand, and a long stream of jumbled words flew out of the room and arranged themselves somewhere out of sight in the Entrance Hall. The students jumped up from their breakfasts and ran after the trail of letters, yammering eagerly along the way.

            “I hope I got the part of Ravenclaw!” Hermione and Ginny and another dozen girls said.

            “I’m cut out for Slytherin,” Draco told his friends haughtily.

            “I’ll bet you got Xaxis’s wife, Lav,” Parvati told her best friend.

            “I heard Dumbledore changed some of the play around,” Cho told Marietta.

            “I’ll be glad if I just get _some_ part,” Neville said glumly. Normally he would be right in expecting the worst, because he really was a failure. But, much to his surprise, his name was the first on the list! He promptly dropped over in a dead faint while everyone else crowded around him.

            “I see my name! I see my name!” Ginny cried happily. “Oh look, Harry, there’s—” she cut herself off as she realized she wasn’t talking to him.

            “Oh my gosh!” Loser cried. “There’s me, there’s me!! Holy Merlin!” And he started laughing his loserly laugh. Everyone else laughed at the sounds he was making, but at the same time they couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable; see, they didn’t know he was telling the truth, simply for the fact that they didn’t know his name.

            “But wait…” someone in the crowd called. “It doesn’t say who got which role! It just has the names!”

            And this was true. The bulletin before them was entitled: “DUMBLEDORE’S _THE QUADRANGLE_ : A NEW FOUNDERS PLAY!” Beneath it was the word “CAST,” and then a list of names.

            “That sucks!” Draco Malfoy yelled, incensed. “It has my name, but it doesn’t tell everyone that I’m playing Slytherin!”

            “And there’s me on the list,” Susan said, jabbing her finger at Dumbledore’s spidery handwriting, “but it doesn’t give me the role of Hufflepuff. It’s obvious that I got it; why can’t the old coot just put it up?”

            “Yeah, this is an outrage!” her boyfriend Edmund agreed. “And there’s my name, too. I’ll bet I’m playing Olivier, the great battle hero.”

            “Actually, I sorta wanted to play that part,” Ron said to Harry. “Either that or Gryffindor. Any real macho role will do, even Xaxis. At least my name’s up there.”

            “I guess we’ll just have to wait until the cast meeting at 3:00,” Harry said resignedly. “We’ve been waiting all weekend, after all. What’s another seven hours?”

 

**********

 

            One heck of a long time, that’s what. By the end of it, everyone in the whole school except for Dumbledore was a high-strung wreck. None of the students paid attention in class, opting instead to list out all the roles they could have possibly gotten. Those who didn’t make the cast fumed into their schoolbooks the whole day, all the more mad because they had no one to blame for stealing the parts they wanted. The teachers, frustrated at all the furor and lack of concentration, handed out detentions like peanuts. Clumps of hair hung from everyone’s fingers by lunchtime, and by the end of classes more than a few faces were blood red from tears of anxiety.

            Only two people managed to take this Monday morning in stride. The first was Luna. She had made out a list of possible cast choices for herself, just like all her friends. The difference was that she has put down every single name in the entire play, stating that she could act any one of them if given the responsibility. “I want Ravenclaw,” she told Harry conversationally at lunch, “but I could make a good Gryffindor or stable boy, too. Daddy says I’ll look beautiful in whatever role I get.”

            The other person was Dumbledore. Forget about being calm: He was downright cheerful. Everyone agreed that this was a sin and that his insane grinning should be outlawed on such a day as this. They figured he must have taken some demented pleasure out of all the suspense (which of course he did), and they plotted heavy-duty pranks and assassination attempts for their esteemed headmaster.

            When the bell rang at 3:00, the castle shook with the force of the stampedes that the students caused in the halls. The resident pets streaked to the nearest nook or cranny to avoid getting squashed, but some of the First-Years weren’t so lucky. Five went to the hospital wing with injuries, and one was pronounced dead upon arrival. However, Madame Pomfrey unpronounced it and managed to pull the unfortunate girl out of her coma within three weeks. This was all no thanks to Peeves, who started up a spiel of dead baby jokes in an effort to “cheer up the ickle Firsties.”

            Enough about the First-Years, who everyone else ignored anyway. By 3:01 the entire cast (and then some) was gathered in the Great Hall, where Dumbledore had once again cleared away the tables and was waiting patiently in the center of the room. “Greetings to you all,” he said jovially.

            “I _demand_ you tell me my role!” Draco shouted out from the crowd. He was accompanied by at least half of the students.

            “All in good time, my children,” Dumbledore said sweetly. “Members of the cast and crew, your curiosity shall soon be sated. Those of you who aren’t such members must exit the Great Hall.” There was much grumbling from the mass of students. Dumbledore gave a wave of his wand in order to push them all in the right direction, and soon the doors of the Great Hall closed behind the last student, leaving fifty students as the select cast and crew of _The Quadrangle_.

            “Wonderful, just wonderful,” the headmaster sighed happily. He magicked a stack of script books into his arms and began handing them out to the impatient audience. “I wrote this myself, you know,” he told them. “I researched the Founders Four and edited out all the historical inaccuracies that plague Durdge’s awful version. Then I took what I had and spiced it up to make some fine entertainment. This new version of the Founders Play is—”

            “Just tell us our roles already!” Draco whined as he snatched a copy of _The Quadrangle_ from Dumbledore. The crowd around him mumbled in agreement.

            “This new version of the Founders Play is divided into four acts,” Dumbledore continued as if he hadn’t been rudely interrupted. “And this time our Four Founders don’t hog all the good lines—I gave a good deal of verbal acrobats to Olivier the battle hero and the librarian and even the stable boy.”

            “Excuse me, sir, but what librarian are you talking about?” Hermione asked Dumbledore with her hand raised. She couldn’t quite keep the know-it-all bossiness out of her voice. “Durdge’s play had nothing about a librarian or a stable boy.”

            “Or the librarian’s lover or the house-elves, I know,” Dumbledore said. “I hate him for it.”

            Hermione looked affronted. “Hate Durdge? But sir, Durdge is considered the greatest playwright the Wizarding World has ever seen!”

            “Obviously our world hasn’t been very prolific, has it?” Dumbledore countered lightly. “If I ever get the chance to visit his grave, I am sure I shall spit on it. He made a vile portrayal of our Founders and the Wizarding World in general.”

            “How was it vile?” Hermione argued, not knowing when to stop. “It was a grand tribute to the opulence and power of the medieval wizards and witches.”

            “Exactly,” Dumbledore said. “It was full of lies. I’ve added a grittier element to it all. Our sets will have to reflect that, so all my set artists will do well to keep that in mind.”

            The students, who had been working themselves up all day, were at a breaking point. What in the world had they gotten themselves into? Dumbledore was unquestionably senile—why had they auditioned for a play written by him, directed by him, cast by him, and decorated by him? This was going to be torture!

            “But fear not,” Dumbledore said blithely: “To lighten the mood, I’ve put in some musical numbers. We’re going to have some fun with those!” His crazed grin convinced the room that he must be talking to his other half, as the students certainly wouldn’t be having any of the supposed “fun.”

            Ron raised a timid hand and took a script book from Dumbledore. “Er, Professor, sir,” he said, “just how much are you involved in this play?”

            “I wrote it,” Dumbledore said. “I cast it. I’m producing it, directing it, taking charge of the scenery, and directing the lighting.”

            The students cast each other a few significant glances, which said one thing: Dumbledore was doing too much.

            “And I suppose you’re doing the bloody makeup too?” Justin Finch-Fletchley piped up, his eyes suffused with fear.

            “Actually, I’ve put someone else in charge of the makeup, bloody and non,” Dumbledore said, smiling sweetly. “Who was it now…? I’ll have to check my list. Ah yes, my list! Time for you to learn your roles!”

            It being a Monday and an argument-with-Ginny day, bad luck had mistreated Harry pretty harshly. But now it wasn’t only Harry that suffered, but the whole room (bar Dumbledore and Luna). The legions of Misfortune sneaked upon the unwary students, slammed them against the wall, and raped them in this manner:

            “The role of Slytherin goes to…” Dumbledore paused purposefully as the audience waited with baited breath… “Neville.”

            Collectively the students let out their breath in a whoosh of horror. Who in their right minds would cast dumb, failing Neville as a cunning Pureblood? The two mixed about as much as water and oil. Neville, who had been on tenterhooks all day after his fainting fit, looked the most dumbfounded of all. He had said he’d be glad to get any part, just so long as he got one, but Slytherin was on the bottom of his list! “Er… Dumbledore? You said…?”

            “My mistake, you’re my assistant director with the lights and scenery,” came the reply. Scratch that, Dumbledore didn’t say that at all. Neville had been so wishing to hear an answer like this that he almost believed that he heard it. What Dumbledore _actually_ said was: “Slytherin, Master Longbottom. You’re perfect for the part.”

            As Neville mouthed soundlessly, Draco Malfoy let out an indignant shriek. “Hey, _I’m_ supposed to do Slytherin!” he screamed. “What the hell are you playing at?!”

“All in good time, Master Malfoy,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “Patience is a virtue. I’ve given you a role I think you’ll rather enjoy.” Malfoy backed down at this statement, but he still fumed as Dumbledore moved down the list.

“Ah Luna, you shall be playing the role of Rowena Ravenclaw. Congratulations.”

            “It’ll be my pleasure, Professor,” Luna said, her lips turning upwards in a faraway smile. Neville shot her a dirty glance, obviously displeased that she got her dream role when he didn’t.

            “And while we’re at Rowena Ravenclaw, Harry Potter is cast as the stable boy.”

            Harry started in shock. “Stable boy?” he said, nonplussed. “I auditioned for Gryffindor, or perhaps Olivier the battle hero. What the heck does the _stable boy_ do?”

            “Mostly he has an affair with Ravenclaw,” Dumbledore answered amiably.

            Misfortune had raped Harry again, this time so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if he was bleeding out the anus by now. He goggled unflatteringly at Dumbledore and joined Neville in the soundless mouthing. Meanwhile, Ginny shot him a filthy glare from across the room, as it was _his_ fault that he had to play the love interest of Luna Lovegood. Dumbledore, however, flashed Harry a special grin and continued down the list.

            “Gregory Goyle shall be playing the librarian,” he said. “And Hermione Granger will play opposite him as his lover.”

            “Yuck!” Malfoy shouted out, perhaps wanting to cause trouble over his disappointment at missing the Slytherin role. “Goyle, I hope you enjoy kissing the bushy-haired beaver!”

            Conversation, which had swelled upon the announcement of the couple, paused just long enough for Malfoy’s insult to echo across the whole hall. There was a moment’s silence before raucous laughter broke out. Hermione was beyond affronted—she started yelling at Malfoy and was about to pull out her wand when Harry pulled her back and lavished her with soothing compliments. Meanwhile, Goyle just stared glumly at the floor. To most people, he looked too stupid to know what was going on, but, unlike Crabbe, he wasn’t really. He was just depressed because he didn’t think Hermione deserved an insult like that, and what’s worse, he couldn’t even stand up to Malfoy for saying it.

            “That will do, Master Malfoy,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Now let’s move on. Ernie Macmillan shall be playing the evil Xaxis, and Eloise Midgen will play his wife. And as for Olivier the battle hero, that role goes to Clifford.”

            There was a long pause as the students whispered back and forth to each other, all asking the same question: “Who is Clifford?” The answer came a moment later when Loser suddenly burst into blubbering tears.

            “I cuh-cuh-can’t do that role!” he cried. “I’m not brave! Puh-puh-please, D-Dumbledore, don’t make me do it! Make me a set artist or a makeup person, but nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-NOT Olivier.”

            Everyone stared at him with a mixture of pity and revulsion (mainly the latter). What a loser. They all resolved immediately to forget his name and move on the best they could with him crippling the cast.

            “I wrote that role with you in mind,” Dumbledore told Loser kindly. “You’re more than going to fill it.”

            By Loser’s continuous blubbering, he obviously didn’t agree. Neither did the rest of the audience.

            “Enough about him!” Malfoy shouted out. “What role do _I_ play?”

            Dumbledore consulted his list. “You’re going to be Godric Gryffindor.”

            Another epoch of silence. Was it dementia, or was Dumbledore seriously retarded? Draco Malfoy was many things: he was a sneak, a bully, a brat, a potions maker, a cheater… The list went on. But brave he was not. He didn’t belong in Gryffindor’s role, and everyone knew it. Including Draco. “Why the hell do I have to play _Gryffindor_?” he moaned. “I’m a _Slytherin_ , for Merlin’s sake! What makes you think I could play bloody Godric douche-shit Gryffindor?!”

            “It’s like this, Master Malfoy,” Dumbledore said. He paused a moment to consider his choice of words, and the students waited to hear what kind of excuse he could possibly have _this_ time. “It’s like this, Master Malfoy. Godric Gryffindor was a slut. An honest-to-goodness nymphomaniac. He slept with anything that moved and a few things that didn’t. You’ll play him perfectly.”

            Malfoy purpled with rage. The rest of the crowd tittered softly but otherwise didn’t know what to make of such a bold pronouncement. “And just what are you implying, Headmaster?!” Malfoy cried. “Are you saying _I’m_ —?”

            “What I’m saying is that, when I asked you to do poses, you did some very Godric-like poses,” Dumbledore explained hastily, almost as if he _didn’t_ think Malfoy was a man-slut. “Hence, I cast you. Believe me, you’ll have a ball.”

            “More than one, by the sound of it,” Ron muttered, and the whole Great Hall broke with laughter. Malfoy whipped out his wand and was about to curse the redhead when Dumbledore was obliged to cast a _Petrificus Totalus_ on him.

            “Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said reprovingly while Ron grinned cockily. “Speaking of which, you have been cast as… hmm, where is it… ah yes, the makeup director.”

            “What?” Ron stared at his headmaster, bowled over. Makeup was the least macho thing in all creation! He had worked seventeen long years in grooming his image, and now Dumbledore came along and cast him as a… as a… no, this couldn’t be true. “Makeup director? But… but… what happened to me playing a role?” He was desperate—he wanted any position but the makeup director!

            “Oh sorry,” Dumbledore said, “I have also put you down for Helga Hufflepuff.”

            Had smelling salts not been outdated by half-a-century, Ron would have asked for them. He sank weakly into Harry’s shoulder and mouthed wordlessly at Dumbledore. “He didn’t…” he finally managed to gasp in Harry’s ear. “He didn’t…! Please tell me he didn’t! I’d rather _die!”_

            “Join the club,” Harry said bitterly. He thought he would feel better if everyone else got roles they didn’t like, but it hadn’t helped at all. His metaphorical arsehole was still as sore as ever.

            “ _Him_ as Hufflepuff?” Susan cried, horrified. “But I was supposed to be Hufflepuff! Who the hell am I supposed to be if I’m not Helga fucking Hufflepuff?!”

            Dumbledore didn’t need to reprimand Susan for her bad language. His next words were more than enough punishment for her ego. “ _You_ , Susan? Let me consult my… ah, here you are! You’re a chorus girl in one of the musical numbers.”

            Susan recoiled as if bitten. “A _CHORUS GIRL?!”_ she shrieked. _“What the hell am I supposed to do as a CHORUS GIRL?”_

             Dumbledore shrugged. “Besides sing? You smile and look pretty.” He looked down at his list again. “Oh wait, that’s not right; you’re one of the chorus girls in the whorehouse scene. In that case, you scowl, dress ugly, and look like a complete slut.”

            “NO FUCKING FAIR!” Susan shouted, outraged. “EDMUND, DO YOU THINK THIS IS FAIR?!”

            Her boyfriend threw his arms around her and glared at Dumbledore. “It most certainly isn’t,” he snarled. “You get her out of that role, Dumbledore, you hear me?”

            “Oh no, it’ll be fine,” Dumbledore assured him. “You’re also a chorus girl in that scene—excuse me, chorus _boy_. You two get to be together onstage—isn’t that convenient?”

            It damn well wasn’t, but he didn’t give them time to complain. Instead, Dumbledore finished up the list. He dished out the extra (in other words, unimportant) roles and the crew positions before he pronounced the casting complete. By that time, all fifty students (once again barring Luna) were glaring at him so murderously that he almost took a step backwards. Almost.

            “Let’s do a read-through, okay?” he suggested quickly. “All you crewmen and crewwomen, feel free to join in the musical numbers. Just say the words; we’ll memorize the melodies later.”

            And with that, he conjured up fifty-one beanbag couches out of thin air and dropped them down in a neat circle in the center of the Great Hall. The students glared at their furniture (the colors ranged from hot pink to blinding yellow to puce) before they grudgingly sat down.

            “Turn to page three,” Dumbledore instructed them, “and we’ll start with the first act, in the quadrangle where the four founders meet. Draco, you start us off.”

            Draco glared so venomously at Dumbledore that he was one straw away from spitting poison. With ill grace, he jerked open his book and began to read:

 

_[GRYFFINDOR stands downstage left in the Quadrangle. RAVENCLAW is downstage right, HUFFLEPUFF is upstage left, and SLYTHERIN is upstage right.]_

**_GRYFF:_ **

_Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,_

_When all the little babies made last fall_

_Inside the thrusts of love are born with pain!_

_The cries of labor reach a fever pitch_

_As babies squirt out, bloodied, on the earth—_

_The bunnies, kitties, puppies, and the fawns—_

_And then their mothers lick them with their tongues_

_Until the mess is gone. And then they snap_

_Th’ umbilical cord and eat it up, along_

_With the placenta. And bravo! Brava,_

_Bravissimo, bravissima, new life!_

 

            Draco’s gray eyes smoldered in pure loathing as he looked up from the end of his first monologue. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever had to read, Professor,” he snarled.

            “It was so gross!” some Hufflepuff Third-Year squealed.

            “Yeah, who wants to hear about animals eating the leftovers hanging from their vaginas after birth?” Ginny demanded.

            Seamus shrugged and said in a small voice, “Actually, I sorta liked it. A bit kinky, you know?”

            “Not kinky, exactly,” Dumbledore said, giving Seamus a rewarding smile. “I was more trying to show Gryffindor’s obsession with sex through his attention to detail in the birthing process. I wanted to have a few someones play the animals eating their umbilical cords, but I decided it’d be a bit hard to bring off realistically. Besides, it would’ve meant spending an extra few galleons getting special-effect placental props, and I think the money might go further in other parts of the play.

            “Anyway, back to reading. Gryffindor has just finished up with _“new life!”_ ”

 

**_RAVEN:_ **

_Oh spring, new life!—but is it really new_

_When wizardkind has labored for so long,_

_Stagnant in their ignorance of life_

_And magic? Certainly somebody may_

_Soon pull our race out from its rutted depths_

_And give to us new power and new strength!_

**_HUFF:_ **

_Why do the children of our simple world_

_Not know where they belong? What loyalties_

_Can possibly they tie when ties are hard_

_To see and make? Who’ll deign to lead them right?_

**_SLYTH:_ **

_If magic our dear children cannot learn,_

_‘Tis better they were cut it twain with spear,_

_With sword or arrow, so their weakling guts_

_Could feed the gasping earth with wine-red blood._

_It’s either brains or bloodbaths we must choose!—_

_Our power to wield, or power we will misuse._

 

            “Speak up, Neville,” Dumbledore interrupted him. “This might only be a read-through, but it’s also your first chance to nab your role. Put a lot more oomph into the last line.” Neville shrunk into his beanbag chair, clearly terrified at having to go through a whole four acts as Salazar Slytherin himself.

            “As for you, Ron, you sound way too much like a man. Use a full, matronly voice that’ll match the beautiful dress and fat suit I’ll be giving you.” Ron purpled with embarrassment as he wondered how many more hits his machoism could possibly take.

            “And you, Luna,” Dumbledore concluded, “perfect. Just keep it up, and you’ll make the best Ravenclaw the Founders Play tradition has ever seen.” The other three lead actors shot dirty looks at Luna, who smiled serenely and said thank you.

 

**********

 

            3:55 P.M. Act I, Scene iv, Line 31.

            “What is this shit, Headmaster?” Draco shrieked as he stumbled upon his next line. _“ ‘Give it to me up the fuckin’ ass/You dirty sumbitch manwhore ‘tarded spaz!’_?! What the fuck is wrong with you, old coot?!”

            “Oh, I love that line!” Dumbledore said, chortling. “If you deliver it properly—in a dominatrix sort of voice with lots of hand-gestures—you’ll have the audience rolling in the aisles!”

            “This is smut!” Draco shouted. “There’s hardly anything about Hogwarts in it! And Gryffindor’s slept with two people already, not to mention the other eight he’s propositioned. What the fuck are you expecting me to do?”

            “Where do I come in?” Susan whined.

            “Right here, you dumb cooze,” Draco snapped at her. “This is the fucking whorehouse scene, if you didn’t notice. You’re singing that dumb line about _‘Hail Gryffindor, the richest of patrons!/Health, happiness to him, and lots of mons!’_ Have fun.”

            “Don’t call her a cooze!” Edmund yelled. “You’re the one playing the nympho!”

            “Oh, and who’s the one doing the man-slut?” Draco said, feigning forgetfulness. “Oh right, you! And it’s only a singing role. How sad.”

            “Enough, my darling boys,” Dumbledore interrupted calmly. “Fear not, the first act may seem a little bawdy, but it isn’t really. It has a lot of setting up to do. There’s more about Hogwarts in the next three parts, though of course I don’t focus on it _too_ much. People like to think it was the life work of the Founders, but it actually didn’t take more than half-a-year to set it up. They employed house-elves to build the castle from a pre-drawn floorplan and then went to various bars and meeting halls to advertise their school to other wizards. It really wasn’t much work. They were more concerned about their own love lives, to tell the truth.”

            “That’s not true!” Hermione cried, as if Dumbledore had personally insulted _her_. “Our Founders Four really cared about Hogwarts. Haven’t you even read Charles Durdge’s original—”

            “My dear girl, how long will you continue to _harp_ upon the worst play in existence?” Dumbledore said with a sigh of longsuffering. “It’s a pack of lies, I tell you. I’ve done my own research—read long-lost diaries, found secret libraries, undone many cursed tomes—and have found that the Founders Four were not as noble as we like to think. I’m trying to present that idea in my play.”

            “But how do you know your information is accurate?” Hermione complained. “Durdge did some research, too.”

            Dumbledore sighed, and only his endless virtue of longsuffering kept the noise from being a rude one. “I’m sorry to pull this card on you, Miss Granger, but how old are you?”

            Hermione deflated somewhat (except for her bushy hair, which could never deflated). “I turned eighteen in September.”

            “And how old was Durdge when he wrote the Founders Play?”

            “Forty-one,” she said in a small voice. Everyone wondered how much of her life she had sacrificed to gain that useless piece of knowledge.

            “And how old am I?”

            Hermione stared at her hands and mumbled, “…I don’t know, sir.”

            “Well over a hundred,” Dumbledore told her. “ _Very_ well over a hundred, that is. I have at least three times as much life experience as Durdge did at that point. I know what I’m talking about. Cased closed.”

 

**********

 

4:49 P.M. Act III, Scene i, line 1.

 

**_OLI:_ **

_All right, you goddamned motherf—_

 

            Loser stopped short and looked up at Dumbledore with tears in his eyes. “I can’t say it, sir,” he blubbered. “I-I-I-I-It’s too _much!_ The words are so bad!”

            “Olivier wasn’t just a battle hero,” Dumbledore told him gently. “He was also an army sergeant. Army sergeants always swear at their soldiers.”

            “But my mum will _hate_ me for it!” Loser wailed.

            “No, she won’t,” Dumbledore said. “It’s all part of the role. It’s not like I added the swear words just for the shock value.” Behind him, Hermione gave a hacking cough that was purposefully fake.

            “Stop whining, Loser,” Draco said snidely. “At least you don’t have to make out with Longbottom.” He and Neville were still smarting from Act II, scene 3, where Gryffindor seduced Slytherin on a scary nighttime mission in the Forbidden Forest.

            “Now don’t you go complaining about that scene again, Master Malfoy,” Dumbledore said reprovingly. “I originally had a part where Gryffindor and Slytherin do some homoerotic nude wrestling—much like the incident in D.H. Lawrence’s _Women in Love_ —but I cut it out and saved the only nude scene for Act IV.”

            Goyle and Hermione, having been the only people in the entire room remotely smart enough to read _Women in Love_ , stuffed their hands in their mouths to stop their giggles. The other people just heard “nude wrestling.” That, combined with Draco and Neville, was enough to make them look vaguely nauseous.

            Neville looked like he never needed to hear what he and Draco had narrowly escaped. Trembling at the lip, he raised his hand and said, “Professor Dumbledore, sir? Who has the nude scene?”

            Dumbledore cocked his head and said patiently (as in: adult-talking-to-a-toddler patiently), “Would you like me to tell you, or shall we read the play and find out?”

            “Tell us!” Draco insisted. A note of fear tinged his voice.

            “That wasn’t what you were supposed to say,” Dumbledore said, scowling. “Now let’s continue reading, and no more questions.”

 

**********

 

            5:47 P.M. Act IV, scene iii, line 42.

 

**_RAVEN:_ **

_Oh, James, a stable boy you may just be,_

_But you mean ever so much more to me!_

**_JAMES:_ **

_I’ve never seen the sea, but it is deep,_

_But my love’s deeper, and it’s yours to keep._

**_RAVEN:_ **

_The deepness of your love’s an abstract view._

_But phys’cal is the bond of one from two!_

_[JAMES and RAVENCLAW take off each other’s clothes.]_

“HOLD IT!” Harry shrieked. “Dumbledore, you gave me a defective copy! It says here that we, er… we, er…”

            “Take off each other’s clothes,” Dumbledore said lightly. “No, your copy isn’t defective.”

            “Oh, so that’s the nude scene you were talking about,” Luna said. Her normal serene smile grew to a grin. “I’ve always wanted to do one. I was talking to a Heebripple about our play the other day, and he said I’d be perfect for a nude scene.”

            Harry gaped at her. She must be out of her mind! “You can’t be serious!” he gasped.

            “Oh, but I am,” Luna said. “Certainly you know that Heebripples exist?”

            “Of course,” Harry said, not daring to argue the point. “But you didn’t actually _believe_ him? You couldn’t possibly want to… to…”

            “Take my clothes off and pretend to have sex with Harry Potter?” Luna said. Apparently she had skimmed ahead a bit. “It sounds fun.”

            Ginny jumped up angrily. “Oh no, you don’t!” she yelled at Luna. “Dumbledore, cut out the nudity! Harry’s not doing a nude scene with someone who isn’t his girlfriend!”

            Dumbledore stared at her with a puzzled expression on his face. “But he is,” he said. “It’s in the script, right there.”

            “Then TAKE IT OUT!!” she shrieked back.

            “Oh, no,” Dumbledore said quickly. “Bad idea. It’s pivotal to the whole Ravenclaw-stable boy relationship. It shows how they overcame their social differences and found love in the unlikeliest of places. It’s a wonderful message to send to the audience.”

            “Well, I refuse to send it!” Harry gasped out, his green eyes drowning in desperation. “I quit this play. I’m not doing it anymore!”

            Silence. A dawning of inspiration came to the students, and the whole hall seemed to swell with the life-giving force of hope. Susan’s eyes lit up and grew wide. Eloise Midgen stopped picking nervously at her pimples. Loser shifted nervously in his chair. Then: “Neither am I!” said Malfoy.

            “Nor me,” Susan sniffed. “And Edmund neither.” Her boyfriend nodded in snide agreement.

            “Me, neither!” cried Ron. “No real man would do Helga Hufflepuff _or_ makeup!”

            “And forget about me being the librarian’s lover!” Hermione shouted.

            “What? Why?” Goyle said, frowning at Hermione.

            “And we don’t want to do costumes, either!” Parvati shouted. “Just because me and Lav like shopping for clothes doesn’t mean we like making them!”

            “And there’s no way I’m doing Slytherin!” Neville burst out in a rush of low self-esteem. “I’d fail at it, just like with everything else.”

            Thus began the rush for the door. Forty-eight students flew up from their beanbag couches and fairly ran for the exit. Fifteen seconds later, ninety-six hands reached to push open the gilded double doors while two lone cast members watched from the beanbag couches. One of them was Loser, who was shivering in his chair, too scared to move and too rattled to know what was going on. Luna, however, leaned back easily into her hot-yellow seat and smiled secretly, as if the elusive Heebripple had told her the ace Dumbledore had up his sleeve.

            Whether Luna knew that ace beforehand or not, the rest of the students found out very soon after. Around zero of the ninety-six hands succeeded in pushing open the doors, as they were spelled shut. The irate students turned as one entity towards Dumbledore, who was grinning at them.

            “I’m afraid quitting will be an impossibility,” he said, holding up his cast sheet. “See, here’s where you all signed your names during the auditions. I trust you all read the small print before signing?”

            By the looks of horror, it was generally agreed upon that nobody had bothered reading it. “I didn’t even see it!” Neville moaned.

            “But it didn’t say much,” Hermione protested, though her voice cracked with self-doubt. “Just: _‘These names are in association with the casting of the Founders Play for the 1997 school year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’_ ”

            Dumbledore put a hand to his mouth in a dramatic show of shock. “I’m surprised at you, Miss Granger! I thought you read it _all_!”

            “I… I did…” Hermione stammered, suddenly feeling afraid.

            “So you read the next sentence? The one that goes: _‘These signatures are magically binding and cannot be revoked, reclaimed, or in any way dodged.’_ ”

            The whole hall gaped at Dumbledore, their faces a mixture of unflattering shock, shame, and loathing. More than a few hearts dropped into more than a few stomachs. Bullets were sweat. And the poor students exchanged looks of pure anguish. What the fuck had they gotten themselves into?

            Hermione was the first person to speak. Her voice quivered as she croaked, “Is that even legal?”

            Padma nodded numbly. “I’m afraid so. Unscrupulous, yes—unethical, yes—but entirely legal.”

            Misfortune had molested them again. Harry slumped against the impenetrable door and gasped, “I’m gonna need rape therapy after this.”

            “What did you say, Master Potter?” Dumbledore asked, sinfully chipper. “No matter, get back in your seats, all of you. If we get to reading, we’ll finish the next three scenes in half-an-hour.”

            The students stumbled, defiled, back to their hideous beanbag couches. Dumbledore gave them all a grin (which only Luna returned), and they shed a few tears over the torturous months that lay ahead.


	4. Loser and the Other Losers

             Dumbledore set the cast the goal of memorizing all their Act One lines by Friday. The crew goals varied, but they generally had to be prepared to set up their parts for the first act as well. In consequence, these fifty students spent the next few days wandering around school, mumbling under their breath as they repeated their lines or figured out their instructions. It was a major distraction, not only for them, but also for the other students _and_ the irate teachers.

            “McG sure was mad today,” Ron remarked on Thursday morning after Transfiguration.

            “Probably because you were reading _The Quadrangle_ under the table the entire class,” Hermione said severely. “Listening to you mutter the same line under your breath twenty times has to be annoying for any teacher.”

            “Actually, it was probably because Parvati and Lavender were looking up dress patterns,” Harry put in. “They didn’t seem too happy about it, either.”

            “No, it must’ve been Neville trying to put more ‘oomph’ into that ‘power we will misuse’ line of his,” Ron said, sniggering. “He sucked at it, by the way.”

            “You shouldn’t be talking,” Hermione said coolly. “After all, you only started memorizing your part today.”

            “Yeah, why?” Harry put in. “I finished my lines on Tuesday.”

            Ron scowled at his best friend. “That’s ‘cause the only thing you do the whole first act is saying _‘Greetings, Founders!’_ at the very end. Lucky bastard.”

            “ _Language_ , Ronald!” Hermione scolded him.

            “Oh shit, sorry,” Ron replied, stifling a giggle at Hermione’s disapproving reaction to his apology. “Won’t happen again.”

            “Right,” Hermione said sardonically. “And you’ll finish memorizing your lines tonight?”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Ron said quickly. In truth, he planned to leave the rest of it until tomorrow morning in class. After all, macho men were procrastinators.

            Just then, Ginny and Luna met them from another hall. “Hiya, guys,” Ron said.

            “Hello, Ronald,” Luna said, smiling faintly at him. “Hello, Harry. Got all your lines memorized?”

            “I only had, like, one,” Harry said as he allowed Ginny to give him a passionless kiss on the cheek.

            “Then you better start practicing for the next three acts,” Luna said, quirking her eyebrows suggestively. “ _‘The deepness of your love’s an abstract view./But phys’cal is the bond of one from two!’_ I’ve got all my lines memorized already. The Heebripple was kind enough to give me the cues. In fact, we had the bestest time ever! You should join us, you know.”

            “Yes, of _course_ ,” Ginny snapped acidly, her temper suddenly short. “How about I help Harry practice instead? After all, I am his girlfriend. _Right_ , Harry?”

            Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Ginny. What’re you on about? Does it have to do with… with the scene in—the scene in…” He suddenly couldn’t finish the sentence, as it was too painful for him.

            “The scene where we have sex,” Luna said, grinning. Ginny glared at her. Harry blushed and kicked his foot at the stone floor beneath him.

            “I have to get to Arithmancy, you guys,” Hermione interrupted them hastily. “The bell’s about to ring.”

            “Oh, watch out for Vector today, Hermy!” Luna called after her. “She’s in a foul mood—it must be the Menopausal Horn-nosers. They wreck havoc on the endometrium.”

            “Merlin, the teachers are all insane,” Ron said lazily. “So what happened with ol’ Vector?”

            “I was reciting my lines to myself,” Luna said, “and drawing costume designs to give to Parvati and Lavender. Ginny was glaring at me for some reason—” here, Ginny glared at her— “and Loser kept bursting into tears over his script.”

            “That’d be hard on any teacher,” Ron said sagely. “So why were you glaring at her, Ginny?”

            “I wasn’t glaring at Luna!” Ginny insisted, still glaring at Luna. “But now that you mention it, Luna, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop rereading Act IV Scene 3!”

            “But I like it,” Luna said. “It’s cute, the idea of me and Harry getting naked. The Heebripple can’t wait to see us.”

            As Ginny’s expression darkened, it was easy to tell it wasn’t only the teachers who were in a bad mood today.

 

~~~~~~

 

            Five minutes later, Hermione found out exactly what Luna was talking about. What’s more, it was ten times worse than the blonde-haired Ravenclaw had led her to believe. When the last bell rang, Professor Vector jabbed her wand violently at the piece of chalk beneath the blackboard. It snapped in two. Muttering an oath under her breath, she jabbed her wand again, and the two pieces rose up to write out a long list of instructions on the blackboard.

            “This is a research paper I’m assigning you,” Professor Vector curtly told her class. “It’s to take up ten rolls of parchment, and it will be written entirely in ancient runes and mathematical equations. You will only be allowed to use information from texts in ancient runes, and you will include a full bibliography with internal citations. You must choose a topic pertaining to ancient spellwork from at least five centuries ago. I will be grading very harshly, so do your best. If you fulfill all the criteria, you have met average expectations and will receive an A—to get an E or an O, you will have to go above and beyond. This project should consume a great deal of your time over the following few months. Any questions?”

            Everyone gulped, even Hermione. This assignment was a beast, even by Seventh-Year NEWT standards. Hermione raised her hand and asked, “Can we come after classes for advice?”

            “Good question,” Vector said. “Yes, you may. I’ll be available after classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

            Hermione gulped again: She felt as if she were trying to swallow her hop-skipping heart. “Professor Vector, ma’am, Dumbledore’s scheduled our play practices for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, all right after school. May I come on Tuesday or Thursday instead?”

            “Those are the days I help my Sixth-Year class on _their_ project,” Vector told her, “so I can’t. If it’s too much for you, you’ll have to consider quitting the play.”

            “But I can’t!” Hermione said frantically. “What about after dinner? Can I see you after dinner?”

            “That’s when I see my Third- through Fifth-Years,” Vector said. “And then I grade papers. And then I go to sleep. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are the only days I can see you. I’m sorry.” But she was in too much of a bad mood to mean it.

            Hermione slumped back in her seat and moaned, “ _Fuck_.”

            “What’s that Miss Granger? You need to speak up!”

            “Nothing,” Hermione whimpered. “Just… thanks anyway.” But of course she didn’t mean it, either.

 

**********

            Thursday passed into Friday. The students who had left off their memorizing for the last day spent every available moment in class to squeeze in a few more lines. In every room there was at least one student murmuring under his or her breath, lips quivering in an endless flow of monologue. The teachers got even madder (if that was possible) and handed out a greater amount of homework and detentions. It was all very hectic and unnerving.

            But there was something about Professor Trelawney’s class that destroyed all that anxiety, all that hurry, all that teary-eyed nonsense, and instead replaced it with a nonsense of its own. The soporific fumes did their duty in making the six students forget about their classes and social lives outside that tawdry tower. In fact, today the fumes were stronger than normal, so much so that more than one of the students started fancying hallucinations.

            “I see… a unicorn,” Ernie mumbled as he stared at Lavender’s life lines (they had moved from advanced tea leaves to advanced palm-reading). “Which stands for purity. What does _that_ mean?”

            “ _I_ don’t fuckin’ know,” Lavender said in a gaga tone—the fumes were getting to her. “I’m notta virgin.” Ernie had guessed this already, but he hadn’t wanted to address the topic. “Maybe I’ll find a… a, uh… uh…” She lost her train of thought and leaned backwards across the arm of her chair to read Luna’s hand upside down. “There’s a gigantumongous fuckin’ cock just below your middle finger,” she informed her, pointing to a barely-visible vein in the Ravenclaw’s smooth palm. “And the semen-stuff is like… oozing…” She followed the vein with her finger, all the way down to Luna’s elbow. “Are y’gonna becomah mingy wank-off?”

            “No, Lav-lav,” Luna said patiently, making sure she was just loud enough for Trelawney to hear. “You’re reading it upside down. It’s a huge, dirty sausage being chewed by a rabid Chihuahua. I’m going to be eaten, bit-by-bit, by wild animals in only two weeks. It’s going to be horrifically painful, and they’re going to start at my feet and move upward.”

            At least Luna’s marvelous brain wasn’t affected by the wildly burning incense candles. Trelawney swooped down on her and pronounced that the Inner Eye was indeed in their midst today.

            “And, _you_ , Professor…” Luna said, pulling gently on Trelawney’s bony wrist. “…You have Edna St. Vincent Millay hidden in your palm lines.”

            “Edna St. Who?” Parvati said, ambling over to take a look.

            “Edna St. Vincent Millay,” Trelawney repeated, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t quite see what Luna saw, but she loved Millay so much that, if she moved her eyes just right, she could almost convince herself into catching a glimpse of the author’s dour face between her lifelines.

            “She’s a poet,” Luna said, her eyes wide. “You know: _‘Love is not all,’ ‘What lips my lips have kissed,’ ‘We were very tired, we were very merry,’ ‘Loving you less than life…’_ And etceteras.”

            Of course the others didn’t know (except Trelawney), because they weren’t as smart as Luna—they just stared blankly at their professor’s palm, not seeing and not understanding. But Trelawney was sufficiently moved by the supposed spectacle that she spent the rest of the class tilting her hand back and forth, trying to snatch a glimmer of the elusive poet. Ernie and Colin took advantage of the teacher’s distraction to play a couple dozen rounds of hangman. Lavender and Parvati took out the crystal balls and began comparing their palm readings to their crystal gazings. Luna doodled naked pictures of her and Harry all across her _Quadrangle_ script. Loser just sat in his chintzy armchair, half-buried by the fluffy cushions, and looked lost.

            The bell rang half-an-hour later, and the students ran off, glad to escape the heavily perfumed classroom. Loser tripped on his way down the ladder and got a nosebleed, and everyone laughed at him (except for Luna, who was nicer than that). Trelawney paid them no heed; she simply stared at her hands, trying to read the mass of lines between her gaudy varicose veins. If she breathed in the incense deeply enough it became a hallucinogen, and she could see Edna St. Vincent Millay’s face staring at her from out of her own palm. If she breathed too deeply, though, her hallucinations went crazy. She saw Dumbledore’s pink arse winking at her from the ball of her thumb. Then Peeves crawled out from under her fingernail and sang a lengthy passage from _Le nozze de Figaro._ Her teapot’s spout turned into a penis and humped the teacup until hot steam spurted into the tepid dregs. Then those creepy ants from _Un Chien Andalou_ started crawling out of a hole in her hand; one managed to get all the way up her arm and down her shirt before she squashed it (just as it bit her bellybutton, which hurt like a bitch). Her first lover, who had some crazy name like Barnabus Bartleby, flew through the window, rotting in every crevice of his body after sixty years of decomposition. He exposed himself indecently before he flew off, leaving her shouting plaintively after him. She half-ran, half-tripped over to the window, a bit horny, and made moaning sounds. Behind her, the palm leaf turned into Edna St. Vincent Millay and said one word: “Sybil.”

            Sybil whirled around to face the long-dead poet, who stood calmly by the table beside her. It was the one Lavender and Parvati had been using, and the crystal balls were still out, nestled as a centerpiece in the midst of tea dregs and palm leaves. “Edna,” she replied, the word slurring around itself.

            “Look into the crystal ball,” the hallucination commanded. Millay held her arm out in invitation, like Death pointing the way into hell. Trelawney stumbled towards the two crystal balls, which stared up at her like a pair of filmy, blinded eyes that gave insight to others whilst taking none of their own. And then Trelawney became, like, trippy and it was suddenly as if the whole thing was a big stage production with eerie purple lights and torches and heavy clouds and

_[EDNA stands center stage by the table with two CRYSTAL BALLS. SYBIL stumbles from center left stage. RUG humps FLOOR.]_

**_SYBIL:_ **

_What lips my lips have kissed,_

**_EDNA:_ **

_and where, and why,_

**_SYBIL:_ **

_I have forgotten,_

**_EDNA:  
                        _ ** _and what arms have lain_

_Under my head till morning._

**_SYBIL:_ **

**** _But the rain_

**_FLOOR:_ ** _[grunting]_

_Ungh, give me more!_

**_SYBIL:_ **

_Is full of ghosts tonight that tap and sigh_

_Upon the glass_

**_EDNA:_ **

_and listen for reply;_

**_RUG:_ **

_Yeah, I’m gonna pound you flat, whorebitch!_

_[RUG and FLOOR get down and dirty. EDNA lowers her outstretched arm and allows SYBIL to gaze at the CRYSTAL BALLS. SYBIL is both terrified and awestruck. RUG orgasms. FLOOR comes off a few seconds later.]_

**_CRYST:_ ** _[Both show the same scene—a room full of candles, heavy and flaming. The lights dance in a circle, wafting heavy clouds into the air above it, surrounding a sunken pool filled with water—a marvelous bathtub of some sort. The waters are dark and deep, and in them a figure rests, a SHADOW OF A PERSON.]_

**_SHADOW:_ **

_No more…_

_[RUG and FLOOR cuddle after sex. Then RUG pays FLOOR a hundred galleons and leaves. SYBIL feels empty and wonders who the SHADOW OF A PERSON is. It looks effeminate, very much like]_

            Draco now appeared in the hallucination. He stepped over the Tea Leaf Gala dance and around Edna St. Vincent Millay. The poet stared in shock at the newcomer, especially when he descended upon Trelawney and thrust his hand up her skirt. Trelawney squawked, and the visions suddenly dissolved. The floor stopped wishing it wasn’t a prostitute, Peeves lost his beautiful operatic voice and disappeared under her fingernail again, her teapot’s penis turned back into a spout, and Edna left in a huff.

But Trelawney was still as horny as hell, and Draco was most definitely _not_ a hallucination. The second she felt Draco’s fingers, she started screeching: “DEATH, DEATH, DEATH!” Draco rolled his eyes and worked industriously on her for what seemed altogether too short a time. Then, just as she was at the brink of her orgasm, he pulled back.

            “I’ve got to go now, professor,” he explained hurriedly as she cried out indignantly. “I really should’ve been at play practice five minutes ago, and I still haven’t dropped my bag off in the common room. See you later.”

            And he shot down the ladder. Trelawney gave a loud shriek of: “DEATH, DAMN IT! _FUCK ME!_ ” She slumped back in one of the armchairs and surveyed the mess around her. The rug was crumpled, the floor was scuffed, and the room was littered in soggy tealeaves, dream manuals, spell books, flower-patterned china cups, and crystal balls. Not to mention the tiny wet patch growing on her pleated skirt. And not to mention the teapot on table beside her.

            The teapot…

            Hey, she was still horny, and she needed _something_ to relieve herself! Trying to picture her hallucination, she hefted the teapot up under her skirt, spout-first, and…

 

**********

 

            “Aren’t you supposed to be at play practice?” It was 3:15, and Draco had just finished another one of his sexual games (he had only been able to squeeze three people in this time, with Marietta being the lucky last). Pansy now stood in front of him, her hands on his hips, saying: “Well, aren’t you?”

            “Yeah, got a bit held up,” Draco said breathlessly. “Now stop hounding me—I must really be on my way.” He flung his bag at Nott, who sat in an armchair near the fireplace, and barked: “Take that to the dorms. And get your stupid cat out of my sight.” He nearly tripped over the cat in question. It was a large, silver-furred feline named Brittany, and it was currently in heat. It rubbed its ripe, moist privates against Draco’s knees and meowed beseechingly. “Eww, fucking horny piece of shit,” Draco muttered in annoyance as he nudged Brittany sharply away.

            Theodore Nott cut in indignantly, “Hey, careful with my—”

            “—Yeah, yeah, I’m off.” And Draco was off.

            “What about a kiss goodbye?” Pansy called after her boyfriend. When he didn’t hear her, she slumped dejectedly into the nearest armchair and sighed a long, loud sigh.

            “Trouble in paradise?” Nott said ironically, making no effort to conceal a twisted grin.

            “What the hell ever,” Pansy mumbled. “Not much of a paradise to begin with. He, like, stopped being interested in me the second we had sex.”

            “Sucks,” Nott replied conversationally. “Not to reflect poorly on your judgment or anything, but Draco’s one of the worst choices of boyfriends you could possibly pick. He’s such a slutwhore.”

            “Yeah, a real fucker,” Pansy agreed moodily. Neither of them dreamed of taking their words literally, at least not yet. But more about that later.

 

**********

 

            “I refuse!” This was the tagline of the day’s practice, which was a complete disaster. Draco said it first when Dumbledore requested he gesture out the motions of eating an umbilical chord in his opening monologue. Hermione said it next when Goyle asked her to practice some of their Act II scenes together. Ginny snapped it out when Luna invited her to look at the pictures she had drawn in her script book. Ron said it when Dumbledore told him to practice foundation makeup on one of the house-elves. Harry said it (more emphatically than anyone) when Dumbledore just _mentioned_ the nude scene in Act IV. “I refuse, and that’s final!”

            “My dear boy, you’re perfect for it,” Dumbledore comforted Harry (at least, he tried to comfort him, but he failed).

            “No, I can’t be!” Harry cried desperately, loud enough that the actors turned away from their practice to watch the exchange. “I’m too shy, I’m too ugly, I’m too young. That’s it! I’m too young— _too fucking young!”_

            “Harry, you are speaking nonsense,” Dumbledore told him. “You are not shy—you are very brave.”

            “Yeah, you killed Voldemort, you know,” Luna said. She had wandered over to support Dumbledore’s case.

            “I _do_ know, thank you very much,” Harry huffed.

            “It was very bloody, too,” Luna said quietly, though collectedly, “worse than Trelawney’s prediction guff. We were all there; we watched you duel until you were ready to collapse. Then you _did_ collapse, and Voldemort started torturing you. He tore you apart with all those curses, and you were screaming and screaming and… well, screaming some more.”

            Harry really didn’t want to relive that moment, even in simple conversation. He shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet and looked around for someone to rescue him. But they didn’t; they were too busy trying to figure out where Luna was leading with her monologue.

            “And your clothes were torn, too,” Luna said, “enough that I saw your nipples and your treasure trail. And I thought: _If Voldemort kills Harry, I’ll never again experience the man attached to those nipples and that treasure trail._ So I sent a Tickling Charm at Voldemort to distract him.”

            “But then I sent a Cutting Curse!” Ginny cut in angrily, her brown eyes smoldering bitterly. “And _my_ curse distracted Voldemort just long enough for Dumbledore to throw the Sword of Gryffindor to Harry—” here Dumbledore inclined his head in a modest bow— “And then Harry decapitated Voldemort.”

            “It was the first time I was glad to see blood and guts,” Luna put in. “I laughed and cheered when I saw Voldemort was dead. But I laughed and cheered even louder when I realized Harry was alive and well.”

            Ginny stomped towards the befuddled Harry and threw an arm around his waist in a distinct gesture of possession. “And _then_ I fell by Harry’s side and hugged him and kissed him more vigorously than I ever had before, and he said, _‘I love you so much, Ginny. Now we have the chance to spend the rest of our lives loving each other.’_ ”

            The crowd shifted nervously, though nobody was as uncomfortable as Harry himself. “Are you sure I said—?” he whispered at Ginny—

“Yes, I’m fucking sure!” Ginny snapped. “The REST of our FUCKING LIVES!” And she glared furiously at Luna.

The cast and crew exchanged wary glances. It seemed that the red-haired Gryffindor had one-upped on the blond Ravenclaw. But Luna was still grinning as she replied calmly, “I can’t wait to do a nude scene with Harry.”

            “Yaargh!” Ginny snarled at Luna and jumped her. Hermione stopped the furious redhead halfway in flight by grabbing her wrists, but she did more harm than good; Ginny crashed to the floor, hurt and humiliated and boiling with temper.

            Harry tried not to look at his girlfriend, who was now bruised both in body and in pride. “Er, you okay?” he threw out quickly before he returned to Luna and asked, “Uh, so what does all this have to do with me doing a… a…” (he gulped) “a nude scene?”

            “Well, you killed Voldemort, didn’t you?” Luna said reasonably. “A nude scene should be a cakewalk in comparison. Besides, I’ll be naked too, so all the audience and their staring eyes will be divided between the two of us.”

            “But he’s not doing the nude scene!” Ginny howled. She lunged up again, but this time Ron came over from his house-elf to help Hermione hold her back. “Get the fuck off me, Ron!”

            “I agree with Ginny,” Harry put in despairingly. “No nude scene for me, please! I’m not _that_ brave! And I’m still ugly and too young!”

            “You’re not ugly,” Luna put in. “If you were, then why does the whole school want to see you naked?”

            “The whole school doesn’t want to see me naked!” Harry cried, looking around the audience in the hopes that _someone_ would agree with him.

            “Yes, we do,” Luna said. “Don’t we? Raise your hand if you want to see Harry naked.”

            Up went the hand of every single girl. A few boys raised their hands, too, including Dumbledore and the house-elf. Neville’s hand went up for a second before he pulled it down, blushing furiously. The rest of the males were not comfortable enough with their sexuality to honestly admit that they were all at least a little curious.

            “There you have it,” Luna said, satisfied. She smiled primly and straightened her robes.

            Harry looked crushed. His green eyes pooled with fear as he stammered, “But… but surely I’m too young! I’m only 17—isn’t there something illegal going on here?”

            “In the Wizarding World, you come of age at seventeen.” These words didn’t come from Luna, but from Hermione. Harry whirled around, stunned, to face his bushy-haired friend.

            “But the Muggle World!” he cried. “Certainly I’m too young there. I can appeal to the Muggle police if not the Aurors.”

            “This is Britain,” Hermione put in, “not the United States. The age of legal consent is 16. In fact, there was a boy your age who did a full frontal nude scene for London’s West End production of _Equus_. What was his name now…?”

            Harry looked crushed. Hermione looked proud of herself over her ridiculously vast store of knowledge. Dumbledore stepped forward and said, “Ten points to Gryffindor for Hermione’s excellent brainpower and her ability to use it for the good of wizardkind. Now let’s get on with practice.”

            Just about everyone was pleased with this outcome. Apparently Harry _would_ be doing his nude scene after all, despite all his protests. Only the young man himself and his jealous girlfriend were furious at Dumbledore’s pronouncement.

 

~~~~~

 

            The students didn’t stay pleased with Dumbledore for long. In five minutes, Lavender and Parvati were protesting the sheer amount of costume design he requested of them. Then Susan pitched another hissy fit over her whorehouse scene. Then Loser forgot his very first line in the act and spent the rest of the practice bawling his eyes out.

            “He’s going to need to have his makeup reapplied,” Dumbledore told Ron. “If you would, Mr. Weasley…?”

            “I did it once, and I’m not doing it again!” Ron huffed. “Makeup is the least macho thing a man could possibly do… besides playing Helga Bleedin’ Hufflepuff!”

            “Language, my boy,” Dumbledore chided him. “Now reapply the makeup. You need the practice; you’ve been doing a pretty crappy job so far.”

            “That’s because I’m a _man_!” Ron cried. “What man is ever good at makeup?”

            “I am,” Dumbledore said.

            “Of _course_ you would be, crazy old coot!” Ron cried. “You’re good at everything _except_ producing and directing a Founders Play. Just give it up; I don’t want to do makeup or cunting Hufflepuff!”

            “Calm down, Ron,” Hermione put in soothingly. “It won’t be too bad. At least you aren’t doing a nude scene like Harry.” She turned around to give her black-haired friend a special smile.

            “You’re dead to me,” Harry murmured tonelessly.

            “And at least you don’t have to play the role of Gryffindor,” Hermione added to Ron.

            “I’d rather do that than play Hufflepuff!” Ron said desperately.

            “Yeah, and then let _me_ play Slytherin,” Draco put in quickly. “And then make _Longbottom_ do Hufflepuff. He’s such a pussy already; he’d be perfect.”

            “I’m not a pussy,” Neville protested. But he was too much of a pussy to defend himself any further.

            “We’re not pussies!” many of the nearby Hufflepuffs screamed. But they had Loser in their house, so their argument was pretty much shot down to splinters.

            “We need to _practice_!” Hermione cried. “We’re not getting anywhere!”

            Hermione was the only person since Dumbledore to say a true word in this conversation. Which was why, ten minutes later, Dumbledore called an end to the whole debacle.

            “We meet next on Monday. To all those who haven’t yet memorized their Act I lines: _memorize them_. I’ll be taking off points next time. We’ll continue blocking with the first act until the end of next week. Feel free to memorize more of your lines in Acts II, III, and IV.”

            And he let them go. It was 5:56. Everyone ran off to enjoy one last activity before dinner and homework. Hermione raced over to Professor Vector’s class to get some help on her project, but she got there just as the professor closed the door.


	5. Complaints from the Cast

            “My four Founders?” It was Dumbledore, and his voice had the most annoying lilt to it. “Come here, please. Miss Patil and Miss Brown need to do your measurements.”

            As always, Dumbledore had impeccably horrible timing. Draco and Neville were on the verge of another fight, and having them stand side-by-side for measurements was a rather bad idea at the moment.

            “You don’t play Slytherin right!” Draco sneered at Neville as they stalked up to Lavender and Parvati, who stood glumly at the edge of the impromptu stage set up in the Great Hall. “You keep stumbling over your lines, and you get all my cues wrong. How the hell am I supposed to know when to speak if you can’t memorize your part?”

            “I—I—at least I’m not the one playing the man slut,” Neville managed to shoot back. “All I can say is, uh, that you’re doing a _perfect_ job at playing the whore.”

             “I agree,” Luna put in calmly. “Draco, you’re fantastic in the role of Gryffindor. Keep it up.”

            “Now stand to be measured,” Dumbledore said. The four actors hardly acknowledged the command, but they did as he said anyway.

            “But you agree with me, too,” Draco snarled at the blonde Ravenclaw. “You agree that Longbottom sucks a gangrene-infested arse at playing Slytherin.”

            “Not quite gangrene-infested,” Luna said fairly. “But he’s going to get better, aren’t you Neville?”

            From Dumbledore: “Miss Patil, Miss Brown, remember to take all the measurements necessary.”

            “I heard something about a gangrene-infested arse… sounds kinky!” This was Seamus, who skipped randomly into the conversation to muck it up with his icky pervertedness.

            “Go away, Finnegan!” Draco shouted at him. “Me and Long-arse are having a _private_ discussion!” He wriggled a little as Parvati slipped her tape measure around his chest.

            “And me, too,” Luna corrected him gently.

            “Chest: 31 inches,” Parvati read, making a note of the measurement on a neat little chart that Dumbledore had made for her.

            “Pull it tighter,” Dumbledore advised her.

            Shaking her head, she did as he requested. “30.5 inches.”

            “Tighter.”

            “What the shit? She’s squeezing me already!” Malfoy whined.

            “30 inches, and that’s as tight as I can get it,” Parvati said, scratching out the original measurement with a sigh.

            “That’ll do. Now the waist. Miss Brown, start measuring Miss Lovegood.”

            “I’m getting 28 for the waist,” Parvati put in.

            “ _Tighter_ , my dear,” Dumbledore sighed.

            “35 inches for Luna’s bust,” Lavender announced.

            “Tighter, Lav-lav,” Luna instructed. Dumbledore beamed at her, and she beamed back.

            “27 for Malfoy’s waist, then,” Parvati said. “And _that’s_ as tight as I can get it, too.”

            “Why so tight?” Draco wailed. “Just because Gryffindor’s a slut doesn’t mean he has to dress like one!”

            “Don’t be silly, everyone dressed like that back in those days,” Dumbledore said. “What are you getting for Miss Lovegood’s waist?”

            “25.”

            “Good, good. And Master Malfoy’s hips?”

            “32 inches.”

            “ _Tighter_ , Miss Patil. How many times must I tell you?”

            “ _Not_ fucking tighter!” Draco bitched. “I swear—this play is going to be torture!”

            “I’ve got 34.5 for Luna’s hips,” Lavender announced.

            “I’m a wee bit top-heavy, aren’t I?” Luna said modestly. She peeked over at Lavender’s chart and said, “Now for the ankle-to-knee.”

            “What, we’ve got to sit through _that_ , too?” Draco put in.

            “Yes,” Luna said. “And the hip-to-top-of-the-foot, hip-to-neck, armpit-to-armpit across the back, shoulder-to-elbow, elbow-to-fingertip, around the head—”

            “Is it really that much?” Parvati cried, snatching up her chart. “Holy sexing Merlin! Dumbledore, can’t we, like, charm the tape measure and the quill?”

            “No,” Dumbledore said. “We’re only doing that for the groin and buttock measurements.”

            There was a few moments of stunned silence as the words “groin and buttock” reverberated in the air around them. Then: “I hate you, Dumbledore.” This was from Draco.

            Dumbledore only chuckled. “Of course, my dear boy.” He turned to Ron and started in surprise. “Mr. Weasley, where is your fat suit? We can’t take any accurate measurements without your fat suit.”

            “Aw, Professor, can’t Hufflepuff get by with less body fat?” Ron complained. “I _hate_ wearing the body suit.”

            “But the fat suit includes the breasts,” Dumbledore scolded him. “How do you expect to play a convincing woman without breasts?”

            This was still a delicate subject for Ron, bordering on torture, and he went slightly green. “Uh… maybe she’s an A-cup?” he said, hardly daring to trust a hope.

            Dumbledore giggled, as if Ron had been telling a joke. “No, dear boy. Hufflepuff was a portly being—very much the earthy, motherly type with a pleasantly plump frame. I’ve already stretched her character enough by adding in that kissing scene with Slytherin.”

            Ron started and goggled at Dumbledore; so did Neville, and he also tripped over himself and nearly sprained his ankle.

“What kissing scene?” Ron said quickly, the panic clear in his trembling voice and wringing hands.

            “Yeah, we don’t have any kissing scene in our script,” Neville added, clutching his leg.

            “Sorry, I’ll have to get you all new copies,” Dumbledore apologized. “I wrote it last night. I felt that Act II needed a bit more material to it, so in it went.”

            “What—how could you—?” Ron spluttered. “Dumble—I—!” How could Dumbledore be doing this to him? He, Ronald Weasley, had worked seventeen long years on cultivating and maintaining his macho image, and in the course of one measly play production Dumbledore was intent on ruining it! Distress had never been so acute in his roiling stomach as it was now!

            “Sorry, my dear?”

            “I—motherf—I can’t do that scene! I don’t want to kiss Neville.”

            “What?” Neville said, hurt. “Are you implying—?”

            “No offense, of course!” Ron lashed out at his timid roommate. “ _Jeez!_ Merlin’s fucking beard! Stop being an oversensitive twat.” He shut up after this and brooded all throughout the rest of his measuring ordeal.

            It took another fifteen minutes for Lavender and Parvati to take the Founders’ measurements. Then Dumbledore sent them into the backstage dressing rooms to take their groin and buttock measurements. Then he called over some other cast members.

“Remember what I told you about medieval fashion,” Dumbledore reminded his two seamstresses. “For the males: the tighter, the better. For the females: tight around the bust, but let their dresses flow outward at the hips. Take the measurements accordingly.” Then he went off to coach Seamus and Eloise through a scene that involved their two characters: the evil sorcerer Xaxis and his unfaithful wife Karina.

            Parvati turned to Lavender, her sculpted eyebrows turned inward in fury, and seethed, “I could kill that bastard right now. Really, I could.”

 

~~~~~

 

            So… measurements, measurements, measurements. And at the same time Dumbledore kept up a rigorous schedule with the blocking of Act I. After the four stars stumbled out of the dressing rooms (Draco moaning about his squeezed testicles), Dumbledore put them through their paces with Scene 1. Neville and Draco spatted a bit more, reminding Dumbledore strongly of an old married couple. He pointed this out to the pair, and Draco gave him the finger with both hands.

            “Ah, but no time to talk about that now,” Dumbledore said quickly. “It looks like we have another few actors who have just finished being measured.” He gestured to Susan, Edmund, Harry, and Loser, who were all gently massaging their mishandled privates. “Master Malfoy, Master Longbottom, Master Weasley, Miss Lovegood…” He addressed each in turn with a slight inclination of his head… “I must leave you now. If you would get to work on memorizing your lines for Act II, that would be fantastic.”

            “I’ve memorized all my lines already,” Luna said, vaguely proud of herself.

            “What a smart young lady you are,” Dumbledore said, giving his favorite actress a special grin. “Perhaps you can help Harry with his lines, then.”

            “Gladly,” Luna said, and it was obvious she meant it. By the way she was surveying Harry right now, one would assume he was a slab of tender rump roast instead of a disgruntled actor.

            “Can you sue a tape measure for sexual abuse?” he complained as Luna took him by the arm.

            “I don’t know, dear, I’ve never tried,” Luna said, steering him off towards a group of finished backdrops that leaned against the wall near the back corner of the stage, which was set up where the teachers’ table normally stood. “Perhaps what we should do instead is to teach it to handle our genitals _gently_.”

            Harry blushed a fetching red. “Er, yeah… or maybe we should just, like, practice our lines…”

            “That, too,” Luna said. “Have you gotten to Act IV yet?” Their voices faded away as they left the crowd of actors and crewmembers in the center of the stage. Ginny, who was still getting measured by Lavender and Parvati, glared in her boyfriend’s general direction and spat bitterly on the ground. A young house-elf popped into view and wiped up the glob of saliva before disappearing.

            “Ah, our battle hero Olivier,” Dumbledore addressed Loser fondly after the Founders had left. “Come, let’s get started on your lines. You appear first in Act I, Scene 4—”

            “—The bloody _whorehouse_ scene,” Susan interjected disgustedly.

            “Yes, the Whorehouse Scene, if you must call it that,” Dumbledore sighed. “Wait, you and Master Daramont are in it, too! I forgot for a moment—sorry about that. You know how it is: your roles are so small, only singing roles, so it slips my mind all too easily.”

            “Rub it in, why don’t you,” Edmund growled.

            “Yes, well… I could use your help, anyway,” Dumbledore told the irate couple. “Do the singing lines when they come up. Meanwhile, I’m going to give the cues for our renowned battle hero. Does that sound okay?”

            However okay it sounded, it certainly didn’t turn out as such. Taking the part of Gryffindor, Dumbledore gave Loser his first cue by crying out: _“Why, list’! What banging shakes the double doors?”_

            At which Olivier was to burst into the brothel with:

_“Lay down your swords of flesh, you cunt-fucked whores,_

_And join my army! Let us on to fight_

_The evil Xaxis and his fucking fiends._

_Man-sluts, bitch-sluts: iron, not flesh, makes might!_

_So join my force—we’ll turn the fucked aright!”_

            With a shaking voice, Loser managed to squeeze out: _“Lay down your swords of flesh, you cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh…_ ” He stopped and tried again, his voice shaking even worse than before. _“L-lay down your swords of fuh-fuh-flesh, you… you… you… cuh-cuh-cuh… cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh… You cuh-cuh-cuh…”_ He began to blubber uncontrollably. “I can’t do it, Pruh-Professor! I cuh-cuh- _can’t_ say those bad words! My muh-muh-muh-muh-mum would _kill_ me!”

            If there was one thing of which Loser was aware, it was that Susan and Edmund were sniggering into their fists and whispering about him behind Dumbledore’s back. He heard the phrase “what a fucking loser” more than once, though it hurt the most when his beloved Susan said it. Her words were like an intense blow to the kidneys, a punishment for his incredible stupidity, and it pained him in the worst places of his intestines to know that it was all his fault.

            “Forget about her,” Dumbledore said patiently. “She’ll forgive you. And if she doesn’t, then she’s a bigger bitch than she was back in her own school days.”

            Loser thought that perhaps he should protest Dumbledore calling his dear mum a bitch, but he didn’t. Firstly, because he was too frightened to stand up to the headmaster, and secondly because his mum _was_ a bitch. A scary bitch at that. “I _know_ she won’t f-forgive me, though,” he whimpered. “Sh-she’ll hate me and ground me and… and… oh, I don’t know _what_ she’ll do!”

            “Once more, _forget_ about her,” Dumbledore instructed him gently, “and say the line over again.”

            So Loser wiped his tears for half-a-minute before straightening his body the best he could. _“Lay down your swords of flesh, you cuh…”_ Edmund pulled a blubbery face behind the headmaster’s shoulder, then stuttered silently in a perfect imitation of Loser. Susan let out a shriek of laughter, which she quickly stifled behind her hand. _“You cuh… cuh…cuh…”_ The two whorehouse extras sniggered at him, making him feel like crap. Why didn’t Dumbledore get them to stop? “ _Cuh… cuh…”_ Why did he have to have a role with so many swear words? _“Cuh… cuh… cuh…”_ Why the heck did he have to play the part of a battle hero when he wasn’t in the least bit brave or awe-inspiring?? “I can’t do this, Professor!” he wailed. “Please, please, puh-puh- _lease_ don’t make me be Olivier! I can’t, I cuh-can’t, I cuh-cuh- _cuhn’t_!”

            Dumbledore, Susan, and Edmund all fell rigidly silent. From behind them the background noises filtered about their little world—the stuttering of cast members who hadn’t quite memorized their lines, the swearing of a stagehand who accidentally drove a nail into his hand instead of the backdrop, the moaning from another pair of actors who had fallen victim to the molesting tape measures—but they didn’t hear it. They were too busy staring at Loser.

            “What did he say?” Susan whispered, hushed and awed.

            Loser looked up at her, hardly daring to hope that he read the tone in her voice correctly. Had he actually impressed her, or was he imagining it? “I said ‘ _I can’t_ ’…”

            “No, my dear boy,” Dumbledore corrected him, “you clearly said: ‘ _I cuhn’t.’_ Do you realize how close you were to saying _cunt_?”

Loser shook his head, horrified that his tongue had made a slip like that. “Buh-but I’m not a potty mouth!”

“No, you’re an actor,” Dumbledore said.

            “At least, he’s _pretending_ to be one,” Susan sniggered. Whether or not she was impressed, she certainly wasn’t pleased with him. Loser’s heart thudded a bit lower at this depressing thought. Perhaps, he figured, if he swore again it’d impress her, and then maybe— _maybe_ —she’d stop treating him like the puddle of shit he really was. Then—just perhaps!—he could win her heart and get her to leave Edmund for him. Of course, that relied on him having at least a pinch of bravery, and he didn’t think that was anywhere to be found in his entire body.

            “Try it again,” Dumbledore asked of Loser, placing his hands gently on the timid actor’s shoulders. “Say _cunt_.”

            “C-c-cuh…” Loser managed. “Cuh… cuh…”

            “ _Cunt_ ,” Dumbledore said clearly and cleanly. “ _Cunt._ ”

            “Cuh.”

            _“Cunt.”_

“Cuh. Cuh.”

            _“Cunt.”_

“Cuh.”

            “Er, am I interrupting something here?” Parvati butted into the coaching session, making Loser flinched spasmodically where he stood.

            “Patience, Miss Patil, I’m giving a lesson in pronunciation,” Dumbledore said with a wave of his hand. So Parvati stood uncomfortably by his side as he continued to guide Loser through the intricate world of curse words. “Perhaps that word is too much to begin with. How about _fuck_? Can you say: ‘Fuck’?”

            “Fuh… fuh…”

            “ _Fuck._ ”

            “Fuh.”

            “Or _shit_ , even?”

            “Sh. Sh. Sh-sh-sh-sh.”

            “Holy Merlin, do you even say _damn_?” Dumbledore exclaimed wonderingly. “What has that mother of yours done this time? Look, just try it, just once.”

            “Dh… Dah… Dumbledore, why d-do I hafta _do_ this?! Please let me just qu-qu-quit!” And how he wanted to quit, more than anything in the world! Loser knew more than anyone else how much of a loser he really was, and he knew that he didn’t have it in him to do _anything_ that might anger his mum even the tiniest bit. Not to mention the fact that he had stage fright already, and he could barely get his mouth around one of his lines, let alone a couple hundred.

            “Never, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said shortly. “I chose you as Olivier for a reason, and I’m not going to back down now. You are going to play our battle hero, and you’re going to play him to perfection. No excuses. Now just say _one_ swear word. Say _damn_. Or _hell_. Or _bloody Merlin_ , if you can’t say anything else.”

            “Dh-dh-dh-dh. Bl-bl-bl. H-h-h-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh… hell.” It was painful, it really was. For that moment and for many moments afterwards, all Loser could see was his mum yelling in his face for being a foul young boy. Then he tried not to imagine his mum pulling out the wooden paddle and slapping it across his bare rear end, as she still did even at his current age. Oh, how terrifying it was to say that one swear word, to go against Mum’s cookie-cutter ideologies and ramrod-straight rules!

            But that one word—“hell”—was also his first taste of freedom. It was the first time he willfully disobeyed his dear mum’s rules, the very first time he had ever shown any sort of bravery in his pathetic life. It was his first chance to prove himself—to who, it wasn’t clear, but he was actually becoming his own person! And he didn’t even know it… not yet.

            But more about that later. Let’s get back to Dumbledore, who said with all seriousness: “Good job.”

            But Edmund butted in with: “Now say, _‘I’m a fucking loser who sucks You-Know-Who’s tiny prick.’_ ”

            Susan guffawed sycophantically and cried, “No, say: _‘I like to lick my arsehole when I go to bed because I can’t get my one-inch dick erect!’_ ”

            Loser covered his ears with his hands while at the same time trying to behind his elbows forward to cover his face. His tears returned anew, and he blushed in humiliation as his crush ridiculed him. Oh, why did love have to be so cruel? Why did he have an obsession over someone who hated him, someone who saw him as something lower than dirt? Why did he have to be such a pathetic loser when the world chewed up losers and spat them on the ground for the dogs? Why, cruel fate, why?

            “That will do, Master Daramont and Miss Bones,” Dumbledore said calmly. He turned to Loser and pulled a scroll of parchment from his robes. “Here I have a list of curses and vulgar words for you to practice. When we get back on Friday, I want you to say every single word to me twice without stuttering. Can you do that?”

            “I… I don’t—”

            “Of course you can,” Dumbledore interrupted him gently. “And you’ll memorize _all_ your lines for Act I. Otherwise I’ll have to take off points again, like I did on Monday. But next time it won’t be a mere ten points, so study hard.”

            Loser looked down at his list with horror. It stretched on forever, and it had every single swear word he’d ever heard, then twice as many more! Not only were the basics on there (like “shit” and “fuck” and “hell”), but there were also sections for vulgar anatomical terms (what the heck was “poontang?”), slurs (even the word “Mudblood”), sexual phrases (like “suck my arse” and “blow me”), and even some useful combos (who the heck had thought up “donkey-raping shit eater”?).

            “Have fun,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. And Loser stumbled off, feeling downtrodden and abused by life. “Now what did you want, Parvati?”

            Parvati blinked a couple times, as if expecting to wake from a surreal dream. It was only when she realized that the scene she had just witnessed was actually real that she began to talk. “We, uh, that is to say, Lavender and me—”

            “— _Lavender and I_ —” Dumbledore corrected her.

            “Yeah… whatever. We finished the measurements.”

            “Wonderful,” Dumbledore said. “Now you and Miss Brown can start making the costumes. Let’s see, today is Wednesday, and we’re blocking for Act I until Friday. That means Act II blocking starts Monday. Hmm, yes…”

            “And that means…?” Parvati ventured.

            “Can we go now, Professor?” Susan butted in impatiently. “We didn’t even get to practice our dumb singing lines.”

            “Have all the Act I and Act II costumes ready not by this Friday, but the next,” Dumbledore said, ignoring Susan’s question. “Yes, that sounds reasonable.”

            Parvati gaped at him unflatteringly. She blinked a couple more times, as if hoping that she had been hallucinating when she heard Dumbledore’s pronouncement “By… did you say next _Friday?_ Professor Dumbledore, that’s nine days from now! And we have… like, one hundred costumes to make!”

            “A hundred and twenty-five,” Dumbledore corrected her lightly. “You’ll figure it out.”

            “Professor, please be more reasonable!” Parvati gasped hurriedly. “Please, please, _please_ , we can’t do it so soon!”

            “Make sure that Edmund and Susan’s costumes are extremely tight and revealing,” Dumbledore added. “Make them look like real whores.”

            Susan and Edmund started in horror, hardly daring to believe that their headmaster said something like that. Susan’s mouth flapped like a house-elf’s ears, and Edmund’s fists curled inward on themselves.

“You can’t do that to us!” Susan cried weakly once she had gotten over the shock. “We don’t deserve to be treated like that!”

            “Come now, I’m just helping you get deeper into your role,” Dumbledore said calmly. But inside he was grinning vengefully; after all, the way they treated Loser entitled them to every bit of humiliation they could get. “So be grateful and stop moaning. You should be practicing singing instead.”

            “Dumbledore—!” Parvati cried plaintively.

            “Next Friday, Miss Patil,” Dumbledore repeated. “You and Miss Brown stay after practice, and I’ll do a bit of sketching with you.” And he swept off to help with the backdrops.

            The three abandoned students bristled with unbridled anger. Susan and Edmund left the Great Hall, deeply offended, and Parvati stalked over to Lavender.

            “Something the matter?” Lavender asked as she arranged her measurement sheets in perfect order.

            Parvati fumed, her nostrils flaring nearly as wide as McGonagall’s. “You know how I said I could kill Dumbledore? Like, really?”

            “Yeah,” Lavender said. “Me, too.”

            “Yeah, only I didn’t mean it,” Parvati countered. “I really didn’t mean it then. But I do now. Fucking Merlin, I do!”

 

**********

 

            Susan considered it a chore to write home to her parents, and she normally waited until they wrote themselves before dredging out a few sentences in reply. That night, however, she went out of her way to pull out a sheet of parchment, fill up her inkbottle, and scribble down a lengthy diatribe.

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_I hope everything’s fine back at home, because it certainly isn’t fine here! Remember how I told you that Dumbledore is putting on the Founders Play at school, and that I tried out and got a part? Remember how excited I was? Remember my childhood dream to be an actress and perform onstage? Remember the hours I’d spend in front of the mirror in my princess costume, imagining myself as the regal, awe-inspiring Helga Hufflepuff? Draw up those childhood dreams until they fill your consciousness, then spend a full minute thinking about them before you continue with this letter…_

_Okay, now that you’ve spent a minute imagining that scene, let me continue. As I was saying, do you remember all those dreams? Well, Dumbledore has dashed them to the ground. Every single last one of them. I am not to play Hufflepuff. I am not to be a regal princess OR an actress. No, Dumbledore has chosen to make a laughingstock of me in front of the entire school. He has cast me as a_ [Here the words “dirty slut in a whorehouse scene” kept scribbling themselves out by magic, no matter how many times Susan rewrote them, causing her no end of frustration. Her hand shook with rage as she continued.]

            _~~Damn~~ Darn that old coot! Darn him to freaking heck! Obviously there was more to that spell of his than he told us. What a supreme pus-head! We all signed some parchment during the auditions, and he put a spell on the paper so that we couldn’t back out of the play once he finished casting it. And now I can’t tell you which part he gave me! _ [At this point Susan dotted the exclamation mark so hard that it put a hole through the paper.] _Suffice it to say that it is the worst part ever, and it’s so embarrassing I think I’m going to be sick before I go up on that stage. To think that Ron Weasley, of ALL people, got the part of_ [scribble, scribble] _… DARN it! I can’t even write what parts the other students are playing?! What the ~~hell~~ heck does that spell of his include?_

_Mum and Dad, I expect you to do something about this. Sue the rotten ~~bastard~~ old man if you have to. Just GET ME OUT OF THIS ~~FUCKING~~ PLAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_Love,_

_Susan_

            She added a few more exclamation marks onto the unnecessary string that followed her last sentence. It didn’t look pretty. Not that she was going for pretty, anyway; she felt so rotten and so mad at the world that she wanted everything to look just as shitty as she felt. She grabbed her owl out of its cage—a bit roughly, too, because it gave an indignant squawk as she tied the letter to its leg. Once the note was secure, she threw it unceremoniously out the window and slammed it shut, then went off to find Edmund so that she could bitch and moan a bit more.

 

**********

 

            Sore—that was the best way to describe the students that lounged around the Gryffindor common room that evening. Each one of them was as sore as a leprous mosquito slurping at a blood blister. Hermione had once again missed meeting with Professor Vector, and she was sucking her quill so hard that it was in danger of exploding in her mouth. Lavender and Parvati made a great show of moaning over a sewing machine and three enormous piles of cloth that drowned the three tables they had drawn together. Harry chewed tremendously on his thumb in one armchair while Ginny huffed in the seat next to him. They all looked extremely put out—in other words, sore.

            Ron liked to think he was the sorest of the lot. Helga bleeding Hufflepuff and the makeup director—what macho man wouldn’t be sore at such a double-whammy? Oh, he couldn’t complain about it enough! There was nothing else in the whole Wizarding world or the next that could damage his reputation as much as this play. Why didn’t Dumbledore force him into a lesser torment, like letting Charlie set a dragon on him or sleeping with Wormtail’s rotting corpse? Wouldn’t those keep his masculinity intact more so than a fat-suit and a panel of face paint?

            “Get up, Harry,” Ginny snapped, disturbing Ron’s train of thought. The redhead looked over at his sister, who was now standing. “We’re going for a walk.”

            “Don’t feel like it,” Harry mumbled, sinking deeper into his armchair. “It’s cold, and I’m tired.”

            “Or maybe you’re just too busy daydreaming about that Lovegood loony!” Ginny hissed at him. She tried to keep her voice low, but the whole room was eavesdropping attentively.

            “Whatever,” Harry replied in the same tone of voice.

            Ginny leaned in until she was mere inches away from her boyfriend’s dour face. “You’re mine, you got that? Now get off your sorry arse and take me on a romantic moonlight stroll so we can snog or something!”

            _If he knows what’s good for him, he’s gonna get out of that armchair and go on that walk,_ Ron thought. Thankfully, Harry did know what was good for him, and he stood up (though with a bit of grumbling) and took Ginny in his arms.

            “Come on, then, honey,” Harry said, though his tone of voice more clearly meant: _“Let’s get this over with, you psycho-bitch.”_

            _They are going to break up_ , Ron told himself with conviction as he watched the couple leave the common room. _They are SO going to break up! A few weeks, and they’re history._

_So how did this happen? I would’ve never guessed it before You-Know-Who’s defeat. They were passionate lovers back then, always swearing eternal loyalty and all that soggy sentimental crap. They were the school’s golden couple, the perfect paragon that all us boys and girls aspired to imitate. To think that for the longest time I felt like crap because I couldn’t find a good girlfriend. In fact, it’s their fault that me and Hermione tried to put together a boyfriend-girlfriend thing; thank Merlin we didn’t ruin our friendship because of it!_

Ron sunk deeper into the couch as he began to mentally process the situation. _So they were all happy_ before _Voldy’s defeat, but afterwards they fell apart. It’s like… all that urgency that fueled their passion just melted away when they realized they had nothing to worry about._

_Good Merlin, was that all their love was based on—urgency? Yikes, what a relationship! Eh, but maybe I’m wrong; maybe there was some other strong feeling—yes, there must have been. Their lovey-dovey eyes couldn’t have been created entirely out of fear for each others’ lives … Gosh, what a confusing matter…!_

_Sex!!—they rushed into sex! She was afraid that they’d never get the chance, and he wanted to “enjoy life to the fullest, or otherwise Voldemort would have already won.” M’eh, well isn’t ole You-Know-Who getting his last laugh from across the grave. He rushed them into sex, and now they’re rushing the rest of the relationship to its destruction._

_WAIT! Did I beat up Harry after I found out? Oh yes, now I remember—gave him a black eye and a bloody nose, too. Good. I didn’t enjoy it, but it had to be done. Imagine if a macho man_ didn’t _beat up his sister’s boyfriend after he debauched her! Oh, the shame he’d face!_

_Back to Harry and Ginny’s relationship. So obviously they’re going to break up, and I’ll have to beat him up again. Now exactly how soon will it be? I have get back on my workout schedule at least two weeks before so that my punches pack the proper amount of wallop. Maybe I should run around the lake, too._

_Hey, the lake… I’ve always wanted to skinny dip in the lake…_

_HOLD IT! Where the hell did that thought come from? Erase that, it’s_ so _not macho! Back to my workout schedule._

_So I’m lazy, just like any macho man, so I can’t start working out more than three weeks before the actual breakup, or otherwise I’ll seem too obsessed about my body. It has to look like a casual exercise fling, something that I just can’t bring myself to care about enough to continue it. But it needs to be set up properly so that my punches are delivered at the moment when my muscles are the biggest from exercising. After that, I have to drop the regime and act all cool about it._

_Which brings me back to the question: When are Harry and Ginny going to break up? I predict it’ll be in three to four weeks, because Luna’s flirting is going to wear Harry down until he finally starts crushing on her, at which time he’ll have some huge fight with Ginny and grab at the chance to let her down easy. Yes, that sounds—_

_TIME THE FUCK OUT!!_ Ron suddenly started panicking. What was he doing here, actually _thinking_ about this? He was _analyzing_ the fucking situation, for crying out loud, and what’s more, he was _understanding_ it! That was so unmacho it wasn’t even funny! Macho men never understand anything—never ever _ever_! But here he was, going in-depth into Ginny and Harry’s relationship and psychoanalyzing the entire thing and thereby predicting its future course. Holy Merlin, was there any way he could erase the last five minutes’ thought from his mind and remain as oblivious to the situation as any proper macho man would?

            “Ugh, I can’t stand this!” Lavender wailed as she pounded her pile of measurements with her fist. “Nine days to make a hundred bleeding costumes—”

            “—a hundred and twenty-five bleeding costumes—” Parvati corrected—

            “—argh, and I can’t even sew! How the fuck are we supposed to do this?”

            “One costume at a time!” Hermione snapped over from her own table, which was blanketed in Arithmantic texts all written in ancient runes and weird, scribbly diagrams.

            “And what’s got _your_ knickers in a knot, Granger?” Lavender shot at her. “You sure are sore—is it crotch rot?”

            “Look, _I’ve_ got work, too, you know,” Hermione returned just as furiously. “It’s not like the rest of us are lazing on our behinds as you slave away on those silly costumes. Believe it or not, but we’ve got problems of our own! So I’d appreciate it if you’d shut up and suffer in silence!”

            Now, most men would have known that a cat-fight was brewing, but Ron decided that a macho man would have been oblivious, and that a macho man would also insert unhelpful comments. So he said: “Geez, you girls don’t need to go mad over it. It’s just a bit of work.”

            “Shut the hell up, Ronald!” Hermione shouted at him. “And go away—you’re not doing us any good!”

            Even a macho man should have taken this hint. But Ron decided, once again, to go for _super_ -macho by saying: “I was just trying to help. You don’t need to take it all personal.”

            “GET OUT!!” Lavender, Parvati, and Hermione all screamed in unison. They each knocked over a stack of their paper/books/fabric in their fury, and Ron decided that it was now time to bow out; he had taken the macho man far enough.

            Oh, but could he take it further? He asked himself this question as he scampered up to his dormitory, meanwhile reflecting on how supremely confusing the whole matter was. Why did he have to think through all this machoism—shouldn’t it come naturally, like it did for his brothers?

            His brothers… gosh, if he didn’t want to be overshadowed by them, he’d have to act doubly macho, so as to put them all to shame. But was all this effort even worth it? It ran him ragged, trying to keep up the mindset day in and day out, trying to avoid the gay and sticking to the manly. Oftentimes he fell into bed exhausted and ready to cry—in fact, he felt like letting go and crying now.

            But of course he didn’t, because that would be _so_ not macho.

 

**********

 

            Harry and Ginny meandered over to the Astronomy Tower and kissed. There’s no better way to describe it—it was so unromantic and not at all interesting. Harry put in the obligatory grope, and Ginny fondled him gently through his jeans. He said half-heartedly that perhaps they should have sex, and she answered listlessly that perhaps the Astronomy Tower was much too public a place to do it, and that they should find a broom cupboard. So they found a broom cupboard. Harry took off his shirt and let Ginny squeeze his nipples. Then she took off her own shirt and removed her bra and allowed him to lick her breasts.

            Oddly enough, the entire experience was utterly unarousing. Harry pointed out that the prefects enjoyed throwing open every broom cupboard in the castle in search of fornicating couples, and that perhaps the broom cupboard wasn’t the best place for sex, either. Ginny put in, half-heartedly, that she didn’t care and that they should have sex right then and there. This was Harry’s cue to feel her a bit more before saying that yes, Ginny was right and that they should have sex. At which he put his hand against her bare stomach, right above her panties, at which she pulled it away and said, wait, she didn’t feel like having sex just yet. So they snogged a bit more. Harry asked her if she would like to have sex now, and she said a little more kissing would be fine for her. They kissed a bit more before Ginny confessed, with more conviction than she had possessed in the last hour, that she actually didn’t feel like having sex. Harry agreed wholeheartedly, though he made sure to add in a pinch of disappointment to flavor the end of their romantic charade.

            Within minutes, Harry was in his dormitory with the curtains drawn tightly around his four-poster bed. He reached under his mattress and pulled out a crusty towel and a stained copy of _Playwizard_. Then, peeking around the room to make sure no one had entered it in the last thirty seconds, he laid the towel in his lap and opened the magazine to its centerfold.

            It was odd that just minutes before he had been in a closet, half-naked, and entirely flaccid in the presence of a half-naked, flesh-and-blood female, when right now he was fully clothed and staring, completely aroused, at an inked page that depicted a carbon copy of a nude witch. Shouldn’t Ginny have turned him on more and the paper-witch less? She’d be more than willing to put her wand in _that_ position, just as the centerfold model was doing, but Harry would rather spend his time gazing at the model. Why was this?

            Maybe it was because this unnamed witch was always grinning seductively at him. Ginny had had her seductive moments in the past, but now she was just as likely to scowl as smile during sex. She also complained a lot during the afterglow, which put quite a damper on his post-coital contentment. Maybe if they got some counseling they could work things out…?

            What the heck, it was time to stop thinking about it! Harry found it so much easier to masturbate, anyway. So he did.

            He moaned as quietly as he could, and he caught all the pumpage in the towel. Then he fell against his pillow with a sigh, at which he heard: “Are you done yet?”

            Harry jumped a mile in the air. Within the flurried space of one second, he crammed the sticky towel and the magazine back under the mattress and crammed his sticky penis into his jeans. He pulled up his zipper (in his nervous state it sounded like an iron gate screeching shut) and cried out: “Wh-who is that?”

            “It’s me, Hermione.” And she pulled back the curtains to reveal her big brown eyes and her bushy hairdo.

            “What the—fucking Merlin, don’t _do_ that to me!” Harry cried, his face a brilliant red. “Can’t a guy have some privacy once in a while?”

            “There’s no need to be ashamed about the occasional masturbation,” Hermione said clinically as she pushed her way through the curtains. “It’s an urge that everybody gets once they go through puberty. Wait, are these sheets clean?” she added hesitantly before she sat down.

            “Yes,” Harry said, blushing spectacularly. “I… uh, catch in it a towel.”

            Hermione did her best to stifle a giggle. “You’re so funny sometimes, Harry, catching your semen in a towel like a fastidious little raccoon!”

            “I resent that!” Harry said, offended. “I’m not like a raccoon. They don’t even masturbate … I don’t think. Fuck it, why are we even talking about this? Why can’t we talk about all the embarrassing stuff _you_ do?”

            “It’s not embarrassing, Harry, how many times do I have to tell you?” Hermione told him gently. “I do it, too. I’ll bet Ron does it, and Seamus and Dean. Even Neville.”

            Harry snorted. “Oh, I _know_ Seamus does it. And you should take a look at some of the things that turn him on.”

            “Oh, I availed myself to a peek last time I came in here,” Hermione said. “Let’s just say that I’ll never think of a Puffskein in the same way again…”

            Harry started. “You nosed through his porn collection!” he gasped, shocked. “What else do you nose through?”

            “Everything,” Hermione confessed willingly. “It doesn’t hurt to learn a bit more, does it?”

            “It does when it’s someone’s jerk-off stash!” Harry countered.

            “Speaking of which, what do _you_ read?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but dug gingerly under his mattress before she pulled out Harry’s magazine. “Oooh, _Playwizard_! This is the best magazine ever!”

            There was a deafening silence. It took Harry a good few seconds of gaping before he could recover himself enough to ask, “Uh, Hermione, is there something you should be telling me?”

            “What? Oh no, no, no, no, no, I just read it for the articles,” Hermione explained quickly.

            Another silence. “…The articles?” Harry said at last.

            “Yes, Harry, that’s what you call the small writing in between the nude photos,” Hermione said patiently.

            “What?” Harry said, grabbing the magazine and staring at it. “I thought those were… I dunno… like sexy porn stories and stuff. The writing in Seamus’s magazines is like: _‘This hippogriff needs some lovin’!’_ and _‘Imagine those centaur haunches around YOUR backside!’_ ”

            “Centaur haunches?” Hermione said skeptically. “I’ll bet that photo’s pieced together; no centaur would ever pose with a human, even if they weren’t naked. But back to the articles—you’ve never read any of them?”

            “Er…” Harry suddenly felt stupid, like he was still in primary school. But he always felt that way around Hermione, so he was used to it by now.

            “They’re really very fascinating!” Hermione said, her eyes glowing. “There was this neat piece on the endangerment of the Lethifold, then another about the mysterious death of Wendolyn the Weird. The short stories, too, are of the utmost quality. It’s really a high-end porn magazine.”

            “I…” Harry felt even stupider.

            Hermione laughed at his dumbfounded expression. “Just imagine how awkward this would be if we had any romantic feelings for each other.”

            Harry rubbed his eyes and sighed. “If you think it’s any less awkward, Hermy, you’re sadly mistaken. And I’d be careful with that magazine; it, uh, has some stains on it.”

            She looked down and saw that he spoke the truth. So she returned the magazine back to its position under the mattress and said, “I’ll wash my hands, then.”

            “Why are you even up here?” Harry called out to her as she traipsed towards the bathroom.

            “I thought you, as my best friend, needed counseling,” she called back over the sound of the running tap.

            Harry sighed and slumped even further into his pillow. “Yeah, it’s not every day that Hogwarts’ dream couple falls into such a state of… bored dissatisfaction.”

            “What?” The tap was very loud.

            “I said,” Harry said, raising his voice, “It’s not every day that Hogwarts’ dream couple falls into such a state of bored dissatisfaction!”

            “Oh.” The tap turned off, and Hermione entered the dormitory again. “Yeah, that. But forget about that; what I _really_ wanted to talk about was you and Luna.”

            Harry gaped at her. “About… Luna, did you say? Don’t you have, like, a huge Arithmancy project you’re supposed to be working on right now?”

            “That can wait,” Hermione said, uncharacteristically. “You’re more important.”

            “Oh… well… I’m touched, but, er, there isn’t really anything between me and Luna.”

            “ _Luna and me_ ,” Hermione corrected his grammar. “And what do you mean by ‘there isn’t _really’_? Obviously it’s something that wants to pretend that it’s not something.”

            Harry shook his head to clear it. “What? That doesn’t even make sense.”

            “Yes it does,” Hermione said calmly. She plopped herself back down on Harry’s bed and said, “Now tell me what you think about her.”

            “Er… she’s, uh, Luna. And she’s pretty cool, ‘cause she’s brave and knows how to fight and stuff. And she’s pretty crazy, too.”

            “And she isn’t boring,” Hermione prompted him.

            “No,” Harry said, grinning a little, “that she most definitely is not.”

            Hermione smirked slightly and said slyly, “Are you in any boring relationships right now?”

            “Merlin, Hermione, do you actually want me to keep going with Ginny or not?” Harry exclaimed, shocked at the sudden line of questioning. “I thought, when you said counseling, that you’d… like…”

            “Try to make my friends happy?” Hermione finished for him.

            “Yeah!”

            She stifled a chuckle and stood up. “You think about what makes you happy, then,” she said as she headed for the door. “I’ll be back later to talk about it. Sweet dreams.”

            And she strolled out the door, leaving Harry in a daze of thought.


	6. The Macho Man is Dead

_Dearest Susan,_

_The news you sent us is worrying indeed. Is Dumbledore really forcing you to perform onstage in a role you don’t like? I’ll have to do something about that, won’t I? Tell you what, darling, I’ll go and see Dumbledore myself. In fact, if you know any other friends of yours who are forced to be in that play, I can get their parents, too, and we can go as a big group._

_I’m curious, by the way: What part is Harry Potter playing? I assume he’s managed to make it in—after all, what idiot_ wouldn’t _cast The-Boy-Who-Lived in their play? Oh, what a ~~stud~~ charismatic individual that young man is!_

_Keep in touch, darling—I always want to hear from you!_

_Endless love,_

_Mommy_

_P.S. Daddy says hello._

**********

 

            Ron was depressed—like really depressed. He wanted to eat comfort foods, like yogurt and strawberries and happy-colored ice cream and maybe some eclairs on the side, and he wanted this for breakfast after a long sleep-in. He wanted to traipse around his dormitory naked with the breeze against his genitals. He wanted to be girlfriend-free, and he wanted to have deep, meaningful conversations with people—conversations that addressed the purpose of life and the nature of humanity. And an O on his Transfiguration essay wouldn’t go amiss, either.

            True, he was girlfriend-free, but he felt pressured into looking, because macho men have to secure their masculinity with a significant other… of the opposite sex, that is. Right? With that sword of doom hanging over him, he woke up after sleeping in until 5:00. He didn’t once expose his genitals to the breeze, but put on some track shorts and a tank top and headed out to the lake for a morning run before the temperature had risen above freezing. He couldn’t put it off any later or else he’d be late in getting ready for school. And he couldn’t wear anything more than he was, because macho men were impervious to the cold. And he had to do this workout schedule (which also included stomach crunches, push-ups, sit-ups, and some weightlifting) so that his muscles were in top form when he punched Harry for breaking up with Ginny.

            When he got inside, he didn’t have yogurt or strawberries or happy-colored ice cream or eclairs. Instead, he popped down to the kitchen and special-ordered a slab of pork (cooked rare, because only a wuss would dare add the word “medium”). This was to get some meat on his bones. Then he went back up to the Great Hall, eating as he went. There, he met up with Dean, Neville, and Seamus (Harry was still in bed, probably because his alarm clock had broken again). They discussed farts, specifically which one of them had the loudest, smelliest one. It was nowhere near deep or meaningful. And if there was anything about the purpose of life or the nature of humanity, it certainly addressed the most banal parts imaginable.

            Oh, and he got a P on his Transfiguration essay.

            That was Thursday. Friday was basically a repeat.

            By play practice on Friday afternoon, Ron was feeling quite morose. He blamed it all on his machoism—it was making him do everything he didn’t want to do, while effectively keeping his away from what he _did_ want to do. Maybe it’d be more appropriate it he called it _masochism_. It only had one letter extra, and it was a good deal better at describing the state in which it left poor Ronald.

            “You seem depressed.” This was Hermione. She was rereading _Women in Love_ since Dumbledore was busy staging the whorehouse scene with Gryffindor, Olivier, and the singing whores.

            A queer jolt turned Ron’s stomach. “Depressed?” he replied, barely managing to maintain his nonchalance. “Pfffft, no!”

            “Pfffft, you’re lying,” Hermione rebutted calmly.

            Ron ground his teeth together. Macho men were _never_ depressed! “What are you trying to imply?” he said defensively.

            “Sorry, what?” Hermione said, still calm.

            “Why would I be depressed?!”  _Very_ defensively.

            “I have no idea, Ronald. Why do you think I asked you in the first place?”

            “I…” Well, duh, he was depressed! He was a macho man who was having trouble keeping up all that macho—“that’s to say…”—how could that _not_ depress him? “You… you didn’t _ask_ me; you just said: ‘You seem depressed.’ ”

            “Sometimes I think your mouth moves before your brain gets the chance to send the signals,” Hermione figured. “Now be quiet—I’m getting to the good part. Birkin and Gerald are about to wrestle…”

            “Hmm, wrestling. That sounds interesting.” Ron leaned forward in order to read over her shoulder.

            “… _Naked_.”

            Ron acted as though Hermione had thrown boiling water in his face, recoiling sharply and racing over to the other side of the room. There may be only a bare few hints that a macho man can take, but this was certainly one of them. He put as much distance between himself and the nude male wrestling as he possibly could. Of course, then he had to stand next to a dozen disgruntled, whore-acting students who looked like they’d rather be in their common rooms.

            And yet, though he quashed this thought as quickly as possible, Ron actually wanted to continue reading over Hermione’s shoulder… just a little.

            “Ah, Master Weasley,” Dumbledore said gaily as he spied the red-haired boy lurking behind Susan and Edmund. “I’m so glad you’ve come over here. I got an urgent message from your mother that I was told to deliver.”

            Normally an urgent message from his mum would have worried Ron, especially if she saw fit to send it through Dumbledore. That meant she sent it by Patronus, since those went like a dozen times faster than normal owl post, and under these circumstances the news couldn’t possibly be good. However, Ron was just too depressed to care all that much—after all, it was just another misery added on to the stack he already faced.

            “When did she send it?” He sighed.

            “Two days ago,” Dumbledore said, hardly sheepish at all. “I sort of forgot to tell you when it came, but that doesn’t matter, now that you’re here.”

            “The message, then?” Ron said listlessly. “Let’s get it over with.”

            “It’s your Great-aunt Muriel. She was, um, (how did it go again?)… oh yes, she was preparing for Halloween, and she bought some treats. Being the sweet-tooth that she was, she tried one of the treats early, but it turned out to be a good deal more malignant than the average candy, because when your parents dropped by to visit her she was choking on the floor and coughing up liquefied portions of her throat.”

            Ron cocked his head at Professor Dumbledore and pouted slightly. “Oh,” he said emotionlessly. “That’s awful.”

            “Oh, yes, and the St. Mungo’s healers also found chunks of her lungs clinging to her sweater,” Dumbledore added.

            “Ooh,” Ron said.

            “And when she bit her fingernails, the skin melted to the bone.”

            “Oh dear.”

            There was a few seconds of silence. The students behind them didn’t quite know what to do, so they stared dumbly at Ron and their headmaster. After this pause, Dumbledore prompted gently, “But the healers are working on her.”

            Ron shook himself mentally; he was getting too caught up in his own depression and wasn’t giving his full attention to the conversation. “She will get better, won’t she?” There, he had asked the obligatory question. To be frank, Great-aunt Muriel’s death would mean no more slobbery, old-person kisses and no more nagging about his future career. She smelled bad, too. And she wasn’t very nice.

            No, what really worried him was that Harry and Ginny might break up before he planned, and that he might not be fully built up by then. Worse yet, they might break up without telling him, and he might give the obligatory punching a few days too late!

            He suddenly realized that he missed the answer Dumbledore had given to his obligatory question. By the look on the old man’s face, however, Ron figured that he had just been told to brace himself for the worst. “Don’t worry, if she dies, at least our last words were those of love,” he lied solemnly.

            “Super-duper,” Dumbledore said, grinning. “Now let’s get back to the play.” He beckoned Loser over to his side and said, “Are you ready to read out your list of swearwords?”

            Loser tugged nervously at a lock of his stringy blond hair. “Uh, I dunno.”

            “Give it a go, then,” Dumbledore said soothingly.

            Loser complied. In a quivering monotone, he began: “Hell… Damn… Bloody Merlin… Shit… Wanker… Fuck…” Although he paused for neverending lengths of time between words, he didn’t stutter once. He had to screw up his whole face and will power, but he managed to squeeze out each and every profanity as it came his way.

            The list was endless, so the actors and actresses got bored and started talking to one another. Hermione came over, touching herself in various places after finishing the nude wrestling scene, and Ron tried not to notice this. She was being shockingly indiscreet, however. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to pop over to the ladies’ room and pull a Portnoy,” she told Ron lightly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

            Ron didn’t want to know what she was talking about. He turned around as she sprinted from the room and found himself face-to-face with Goyle. “What’re you staring at?” he asked rudely.

            “Uh… uh…” Goyle’s mouth was half-open  with shock. “Did she just say…?”

            “I have no idea what she said, stupid idiot,” Ron snapped. “And can’t you even form a full sentence? Or are you too much of a troll?”

            “I’m not… I can form…” Goyle started indignantly. But Ron was already gone. Feeling more than put out by the fact that his dumb-lackey-routine was kicking him in arse again, he sighed and scuffed the floor with his toe. And he wondered… _had_ he heard Hermione correctly? If she said what he thought she said, then he was immensely turned on.

 

~~~~~

 

            “…Cunnilingus kitten… Snowballing arse-chewer… Sphincter-shit cake… Blister-cunny cock frotter… Clitting bloody blasted dick-lick bugger slam… and… Holy-Merlin-on-a-fucking-bike-wanking-a-blue-haired-child-in-a-nude-suit-with-rubber-studded-nipples-and-bushy-pubes. How did I do?” Loser looked up Dumbledore, his face shining with a thin film of sweat.

            Dumbledore, not normally swayed by great emotion, raised both eyebrows and grinned widely. “I am… _very_ proud of you, my boy. You didn’t stutter even once; you did worlds better than I expected.” Clearly he was deeply impressed. “Don’t you agree, Master Weasley?”

            Ron, who happened to nearby at the time, started when he heard his name. “Huh?” he said. He was still lost in his previous thoughts, and all he had heard was “Master Weasley.”

            “Don’t you feel that the role of our renowned battle hero is in safe hands?”

            “Oh…” Ron said. “Yeah… yeah, all those swearwords. You did better than Ginny when she’s on her period.”

            Dumbledore smiled indulgently and said to Loser, “Time for the whorehouse scene, then. You ready, my dear boy?”

            “A-as I’ll ever be,” Loser managed. So Dumbledore gathered up the Draco and the whores, and they began at Olivier’s entrance:

 

**_GRYFF:_ **

_Why, list’! What banging shakes the double doors?_

_[OLIVIER bursts into brothel at downstage right.]_

**_OLI:_ **

_Lay down your swords of flesh, you cunt-fucked whores,_

_And join my army! Let us on to fight_

_The evil Xaxis and his fucking fiends._

_Man-sluts, bitch-sluts: iron, not flesh, makes might!_

_So join my force—we’ll turn the fucked aright!_

**_WHORE #1:_ **

_Who is this man that interrupts our bawd?_

**_WHORE #2:_ **

_‘Tis Mistah Divvil’s gen’ral, oh my Lawd!_

**_MANWHORE #1:_ **

_No, ‘tis an angel messenger, I swear_

_He’s here to help and save our sorry souls_

_From Xaxis. So I say, forget these poles_

_And chains and spells—let wands turn them to air!_

_[MANWHORE #1 summons a breastplate of armor from the Kinky Corner and straps it over his bare chest.]_

**_OLI:_ **

_See here, now here’s a man to emulate—_

_A fuckin’ good old soldier he will make,_

_A man of valor, a man who’ll no shit take._

_For his renown let vict’ries consummate!_

_[OLIVIER crosses to upstage left, where a group surrounds WHORE #5, who is giving birth.]_

_You lazy fucks! You smears, have you not heard:_

_A time for life, and also time for death?_

_Well, time for life is pretty fucking gone,_

_So no more fornication, which then leads_

_To this: the spectacle of bloody birth._

**_WHORE #5:_ ** _[moaning]_

_The pain, sir, ah the awful pain! Lend aid!_

**_OLI:_ ** _[yelling]_

_You stupid whore, just yank it by the head!_

_[He rips the baby from the womb and bashes it against the floor, where its head splits open.]_

_Slam, BAM! No fear, it was already dead._

            “Stop, stop, stop!” Dumbledore cried out. “My dears, this isn’t working. We did the read-through over a week ago; now’s the time for some actual _acting_. Miss Quirke!”

            Orla Quirke, the slight Third-Year Ravenclaw playing Whore #5, jumped. “Yes, Headmaster?”

            “If you were giving birth and someone stormed into the womb—sorry, room—and ripped your baby from the uterus, then bashed its head on the floor, what would you do?”

            “Uh…” Orla thought about it for a long, hard moment.

            “Come on, dear girl, it’s not an essay question on a test.”

            “Well, I suppose I’d be mad,” she said meekly.

            “Mad,” Dumbledore repeated. He refrained from sighing and leaned conspiratorially towards the nervous actress. “Mad. Is that all you’d feel? Olivier has just _ripped_ your baby from your very body, and he has bashed its tiny little brains against the stone floor at your feet. You’ve spent nine months carrying that thing around; you got morning sickness, and there was no toilet so you threw up on your blankets; then you got cravings, but you were too poor to buy caviar and chocolate frogs; you lay in bed the last month, unable to do anything; and all the meantime you’ve been whoring yourself out for money, having men and even a few women sticking themselves into the most unnatural places imaginable, and the whole while you’ve been worried they might give the baby a black eye, or at least a miscarriage; then your water broke, let’s say while you were in the middle of an argument with the head of the whorehouse because she wants to turn you out because you’re pregnant. Now, after fifty-three drug-free, pain-filled hours, you are finally about to pop the thing out. Imagine all the tears and frustration, all the arguments, all the worries—all for nothing.”

            “Hmm, I suppose,” Orla sighed. “But she’s a whore. Wouldn’t this be like her tenth child, since they didn’t have the Contraceptive Charm back then? Wouldn’t she be sliding them out like BM’s?”

            “Miss Orla, my dear,” Dumbledore said slowly and patiently, “You are _thirteen_. Do you think you’d be on your tenth child by now?”

            Orla’s face was a brilliant red by now. She drew slowly into herself as she shook her head. “I guess not. But she’s still a whore; wouldn’t she be glad she didn’t have an extra mouth to feed?”

            “Orla Quirke, the bond between a woman and her child is a special bond. It doesn’t matter if that child is going to drive her out of house and home, or if it’s going to starve her or even kill her—she’s going to love that thing more deeply than she had ever imagined love before. Yes, my dear, she is a whore. But first and foremost she is a human being.”

            Orla Quirke frowned at her headmaster. “I don’t get it,” she said, as if whores and human beings didn’t quite add up.

            “She probably didn’t want to be a whore in the first place,” Dumbledore told her. “Chances are, she was a destitute girl from an impoverished home, and this whorehouse was the only place that would offer her shelter. Sort of like in _Fanny Hill_ , except without the cheerful satire.”

            “Fanny what?”

            “Never mind,” Dumbledore said quickly. “Let’s try from another angle: what do you love to do the most, Miss Quirke?”

            The Ravenclaw chewed gently on her painted fingernails as she thought over the question. The gawping faces of the fifty other cast-and-crew members weren’t helping her at all. “I guess… writing on my novel?”

            “You don’t guess, Miss Quirke. Either you do or you do not do.”

            Orla nodded nervously and tried again: “The thing I love most to do is… write on my novel.”

            “Good,” Dumbledore said. “Now imagine that you are at the window of your dorm room—you write in your dorm? good—imagine you are in your dorm room, and you are sitting by the window. It’s a beautiful spring day—the trees are conflagrant with color, the birds are especially on tune, and the sky is bluer than Master Abercrombie’s eyes—” here, Orla blushed— “And you have your quill and parchment in hand. The words are flowing particularly well; you have just gotten over a horrendous stretch of writer’s block, and the sentences flow so fast you can hardly get them on paper in time. After months of self-doubt, you finally see yourself finishing this novel.” Orla closed her eyes and sighed contentedly at the images Dumbledore brought forth.

            “And now imagine that Master Clifford here suddenly bursts into your room, yelling ragged holes in his throat. He crosses over to the window, tears the stack of paper from your hands, rips them to shreds, then finds the rest of the novel and sets it on fire; he even takes the outline and feeds it to his owl. Now how would you feel about _that?”_

            Orla, so lost in euphoria the moment before, goggled at Dumbledore in horror. “Why, Headmaster!… that’s… that’s…” She couldn’t even finish her sentence, so traumatized was she. It was all she could to do keep from reeling backward into the laps of the other whore-actors.

            “Exactly!” Dumbledore said. “I expect that reaction out of you next time we do this scene. No more lying calmly against the floor as your baby’s guts paint your legs crimson.” Leaving the poor Third-Year gasping for breath, he turned to Loser and said, “What an improvement! You still aren’t giving your lines their full conviction, but at least you have them all memorized.”

            Loser didn’t quite know whether to bask in the compliment or quiver under the constructive criticism. “I—I, yes, I actually did it!” he said, a slight grin quavering tremendously on his pasty face. “Me, Olivier… I c-can almost see it now!” He shot an obvious, side-long glance at Susan, as if hoping to impress to her that his name was connected to a battle hero’s for the first time in his life. She wasn’t listening, though, so it did him no good.

            “Your acting will be what gives the role the greatest presence,” Dumbledore said critically, “but your appearance must aid you part of the way. Miss Brown, Miss Patil, how are the costumes going?”

            “We’re working on them now!” Parvati called from the wings, where she and Lavender suffered diligently over a mountain of fabric and measurements.

            “How many have you made so far?” Dumbledore called back.

            “Four!” Parvati answered.

            “Good, my girls, only another 121 to go—do you think you’ll have it done by next week?”

            “At two costumes a day,” Goyle offered up quietly, “they’ll likely only finish another fourteen by the deadline you set— _ow_!” Draco Malfoy kicked him viciously and hissed at him to shut up.

            “Let’s forget the costumes for now. Master Weasley, did you read the books on makeup that I asked you to read?”

            “Uh…” Ron hadn’t been able to resist a few peeks, but for the most part he had stuck to his machoist creed and kept the books tightly closed.

            “Do you at least have them with you?” Dumbledore said, correctly interpreting Ron’s reply.

            “Er… no,” Ron said truthfully, hoping that his lack of preparation would let him off the hook.

            “I have them, Headmaster!” Hermione interrupted cheerfullly. “I knew Ron would forget—he has such a bad memory—so I took the liberty of bringing them down myself.”

            Ron glared at his bushy-haired friend, but Dumbledore smiled specially at her. “Five points to Gryffindor,” he said. “Ron, take the books and start doing makeup on our battle hero. Make his features especially striking, to match his attitude.”

            Hermione pulled the two makeup books from her bag and handed them to Ron with a grin. He snatched them away sourly and slouched off to the backstage area with Loser.

            They entered the makeup station, which was nestled between the male and female dressing rooms. The wall opposite the door was one long mirror above a counter covered in trays of makeup. The other walls held three-sided mirrors, a few supply cabinets, and a tottering stack of beanbag couches. Ron Summoned himself a couch and heaved his body into its puce fabric. Loser didn’t get himself a seat, but instead crossed over to the counter and began looking at himself in the mirror. For at least a minute-and-a-half they rested in silence, neither of them making a move to do anything. Ron had laid down an unspoken refusal to do any makeup, and Loser was too much of a wuss to get him off his stubborn arse.

            Unable to bear the silence any longer, Loser broke it with a stutter. “I-I-I-I’m getting buh-buh-better, right?” he asked Ron.

            “You’re still stuttering,” Ron grunted in reply. He thought that perhaps he should spare Loser’s feelings and encourage him, but macho men never encouraged people. However callous that seemed, that’s how the rules were, and he couldn’t break them.

            “Wuh-wuh-wuh—” Loser stopped himself and closed his eyes. He took a few deep, calming breaths and started over. “Well… uh, I forgot what I was g-going to say.”

            “Something about how you’re finally able to say the F-word?” Ron said. He couldn’t help it: He just had to replace that scared-shitless look that marred Loser’s face. Maybe just a wee, disguised compliment would help.

            “T-T-T-True,” Loser said, managing a smile that didn’t pass his lips. “I s-s-said… I said… s-s-s-s-s-said _fuck_. And _arse_ … a-a-and _bugger_.”

            “Yeah, well. It’s a start, I guess.”

            “Buh-buh-but I _still_ can’t act!” Loser wailed suddenly. “I muh-make a horrible Olivier, ‘cause I’m nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-not brave, and my muh-muh-muh-muh-mum will _kill_ me when she sees th-th-th-the play!”

            “Ah, mums are like that,” Ron said, remembering just in time to add a bit of machoistic impatience to his voice. “They kill you all the time, and there’s nothing you can really do about it. It’s mostly just yelling, anyway.”

            “Buh-but my mum st-st-st-still…” Loser suddenly stopped talking, obviously not wanting to reveal the kinds of punishments his mum still inflicted upon him. He slumped over the counter and laid his entire sleeve down in thirteen different shades of blush. When he saw his mistake, he dissolved quietly into blubbery tears.

            “Hey, now,” Ron said, rising from his beanbag. “Oi, don’t start the waterworks. Just, like, uh, calm down or something…” Oh holy Merlin, how dearly he wanted to do something to help that pathetic little Loser! Finally, it was his chance to change the nature of humanity for the good of wizardkind, which was a hell of a lot better then merely talking about it as he wished for earlier. Ah, it was such a taboo, but it wasn’t _too_ high on the scale of unmacho, was it? It wasn’t like he was going to let the guy cry on his shoulder or anything?

            Loser turned away from the table and buried his face into Ron’s shoulder. Alarm bells immediately rang off in the red-head’s brain, but all he did was stand there dumbly as this stringy Sixth-Year Hufflepuff wailed into his robes. He gave the kid a few awkward pats on the back and figured that letting someone cry on your shoulder wasn’t _too_ much higher on the scale of unmacho. It wasn’t like he was going give Loser some deep, helpful advice, right?

            “What should I do?” Loser wailed. “Huh-huh-how can I be a buh-buh-better actor? Huh-how can I buh-buh-be a better _person_?!”

            Poor guy. Poor, poor guy. It was worse than being afraid of your own shadow. This guy, this Loser, was afraid of _himself_! _He must every phobia in the book_ , Ron figured sadly, _including a phobia for phobias! There must be something I can do to fix this._

            “Uh, well, first of all,” Ron started, “if something goes wrong, it’s not the end of the world, okay? You got that?”

            Loser nodded tremulously.

            “Good. If someone calls you Loser, don’t feel like you have to believe them. Heck, don’t feel like you have to believe anything that anyone says. Just, like, uh, believe in yourself… or something…”

            Okay, he was definitely kicking it up on the unmacho scale. A few more points, and he could seriously ruin his reputation!

            _But I’ll make up for it, I swear!_ Ron cried inwardly. _I’ll wear my thinnest tank top tomorrow and run at the coldest, most miserable  part of the morning! I’ll eat my pork raw and talk with Dean and Seamus about boobies and toilets! I’ll be an insensitive crud and hurt Hermione’s feelings again! I’ll forgo anything meaningful or deep, and I’ll wallow in shallow manliness all day long, just to make up for all this! I’m not so far gone yet!_

            Yes, that sounded about right. At least he wasn’t doing Loser’s makeup. That was like number two on the scale of unmacho, tied with cross-dressing and bottoming for another guy.

            Loser gave a gigantic sniff and pulled out a much-worn handkerchief to wipe his face. “Thanks, Weasley,” he said. “Now c-can you help me do my makeup?”

            “Sure.”

            It was so wrong, and he just knew it. It was as bad as his first time masturbating. Ron had been thirteen and locked up in the bathroom, and his parents were in the other room, and he just couldn’t stop touching himself! He heard every voice throughout the entire house (funny how sensitive the ears get during jerk-off sessions), but since none of them wandered towards the door, he kept up the pumping, and he just _knew_ there was something inherently wrong about it, and he _knew_ that if anyone else saw then he had earned himself a one-way ticket to hell, and oh!, how awful it was to eke out the final result! How short his pleasure for such endless stretches of guilt!

            Had he learned nothing? Here he was, doing makeup— _doing makeup!!_ —when he knew he shouldn’t, when he knew that all his machoism would come crashing down, just so he could feel like he did one thing that could count as meaningful. He tried to will himself to put down the open manual, he tried to will his fingers away from the foundation makeup and the eye liner, he tried desperately to keep his hands off the rouge and the greasepaint, and at times he nearly succeeded. But once he started he couldn’t stop, and when it was time to give Loser his battle scar, Ron positively melted.

            When it was all over, Loser was grinning from ear-to-ear. “G-g-gee, I look like a real actor now!” he cried happily. “Th-thanks a bunch, Weasley!” When Ron saw that loser’s smile, he knew what it meant—that he, macho man Weasley, had finally done something meaningful, and oh, it filled him with such a fuzzylicious warmth he could hardly stand straight, his legs were wobbling so! That feeling was like the rewarding orgasm at the end of his masturbatory deed.

            Just then, Hermione burst into the room with: “Hey, Dumbledore sent me in here to check on you guys.” And _that_ was like being caught in the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and spooj still dripping from his shlong. “Oh, you’re just about finished!”

            And as Hermione took in the scene—Loser grinning happily in front of the mirror and Ron with his makeup-dusted hands in the air—the redhead finally realized the enormity of his actions. He had forfeited his title of macho man. It was one thing to slip up in front of a half-stranger, especially someone as meek as Loser, because such a slip-up could be easily concealed by his anonymity, then consequently forgotten. Yet he hadn’t slipped up in front of a half-stranger, but in front of his best friend! The secret was laid bare and flayed bare, prostrate against the floor for Hermione to see in all its gory shame. Now that she knew, there was no way he could ever, _ever_ fix this. Ron’s chest filled with a horrifying panic as he had never felt before.

            Dumbledore entered right after this. “Master Weasley, another Patronus arrived from your mother. She says that the healers did everything they could, but that when they finally stopped the effects of the spell, your Great-aunt Muriel’s entire insides were eaten out.”

            “Wha—?” It’s like he saw Dumbledore’s mouth moving, yet he didn’t understand the words. He was caught up in a well of endless tragedy; how could anything Dumbledore told him possibly make it better?

            “She is, of course, dead. However, she stated in her will that she does not wish for a funeral service. Neither will there be a cremation, as she will be donating her body to St. Mungo’s research center. If you want any closure, you can view her body in the Exhibit of Horrific Household Accidents at St. Mungo’s Medical Museum. My deepest condolences go out to you, my boy.”

            Ron sunk wordlessly into the beanbag couch. Dumbledore turned to Loser and said, “Come, Olivier, let us continue practice and leave our bereaved Hufflepuff-slash-makeup-director to his grief.” And he swept from the room with Loser trailing a few feet behind.

            The door closed, and Ron and Hermione were alone. It was now him and his friend, but at the moment she felt more like his accuser. She hung hesitantly around him, as if waiting for him to explain his actions or at least react violently towards her. Again and again the immensity of his sins crashed against his skull, sending him reeling even deeper into the beanbag until he could only clutch his head in his hands and curl into the fetal position.

            And then, Ron did the most unmacho thing of all:

            He cried.

            He cried and he cried and he cried. Not just little tears, but huge, wracking sobs that tore his lungs and throbbed in his eyeballs. These were tears that he seemed to pull up from his intestines, the kind that made his stomach feel all melty, the kind that made his abs hurt worse than if had he done a hundred crunches. He couldn’t control himself any longer—after seventeen years of holding all the unmacho in, he had to let it out some way!

            Hermione gaped at her friend, completely shocked and not at all sure how to react. Yes, Ron yelled, and yes, Ron lost his temper, but _crying_? Never! She could only bend down awkwardly beside the hideous couch and place her arm clumsily around his shoulder. Even then, she fully expected him to shrink away from her touch.

            But he didn’t. He threw himself into her arms and wailed into her shoulder. He soaked her blouse with his shame and rumpled her robes with his desperate fists. She stroked his red hair gently and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Ronald. I never knew your Great-aunt Muriel, but I’m sure she—”

            “Who cares about Great-aunt Muriel?!” Ron interrupted her hysterically.

            “What?” Now Hermione was _really_ confused. What the hell could Ron be crying about besides his Great-aunt Muriel?

            “I want comfort foods!” he sobbed. “I want strawberry-banana sherbet and a cup of Earl Gray! I don’t want to punch Harry for breaking up with Ginny, and I want to let my sister make her own choices in who she picks as a boyfriend without acting angry every single time she thinks about sex! I want to walk around my dormitory naked without having to worry about looking gay! I want medium-rare steak instead of rare steak, and I want a rosemary garnish with a bit of fresh lemon squeezed over it! I don’t want to talk about farts and bowel movements and the reasons why our penises don’t dangle from our noses! I want to do something meaningful, and I want to talk about the Wizarding World’s greatest philanthropists and why their work means so much to humans everywhere! And I don’t want to be such a damned procrastinator!!”

            “You want…? But Harry hasn’t broken up with Ginny, has…?”

            “I’M NOT MACHO!!” It was a heart-rending wail that echoed half-a-dozen times against each wall of the makeup station. Then the words settled with a finality that marked the end of Ron’s entire charade. For an endless moment the pair sat in silence as the words fully digested themselves into the situation.

            Then Hermione let out a whoosh of breath. “So _that’s_ all that’s been bothering you!” she said.

            Ron wiped his sodden face on his sleeves and frowned. “What do you mean by ‘that’s all’?”

            “I mean to say, why did you ever worry about it?” Hermione explained. “We never thought you were macho in the first place—just confused about the kind of man you wanted to be.”

            He goggled at her most unflatteringly, and for a long time all he could do was mouth wordlessly as he processed her all-too-casual statement. Did this mean that his seventeen-year effort had been meaningless? Had the macho front been entirely unnecessary?! The thought was so ghastly it was nigh unthinkable! “Strawberry-banana sherbert _NOW!!”_ he cried.

            And he dragged her off to the Kitchens so he could drown his defeat (or was he buoying his victory?) in ice cream and chocolate. They missed the rest of play practice, but they were too busy having deep, meaningful conversations about the purpose of life and the nature of humanity to care.


	7. Tampon Lady Starts a Rebellion

            After Voldemort’s downfall, the mothers and fathers (mostly the mothers, actually) had decided to take a leaf from the Muggles’ book and form a Parent-Teacher Association for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As such, the parents could now give their input in a way that was much more effective than bombarding Dumbledore with owls. Not that the headmaster _didn’t_ still get daily letters of complaints, that is…

            The PTA meetings, like the mothers’ periods, happened once a month, and woe betide the mum who had them at the same time! See, these meetings were more frustrating than they were useful. The fathers kept adjusting their office hours in order to purposefully miss them, the teachers cited conflicting schedules or sudden illnesses or some other such excuse that constituted their absence, and even the mothers began inventing flimsy stories that bailed them out of attending. Therefore, the PTA had degenerated into a monthly gripe-fest in which everything got complained about and nothing got done.

            However, it seemed that this November’s meeting just _might_ be different. As usual, the mothers Apparated or drove to Narcissa Black’s manor, because it was easily bigger than the homes of any other two parents combined. She had divorced Lucius Malfoy just before he went off to prison for life, and she had reaped big-time from the benefits (in other words, she got the house and all the money, and the parental rights, too). And, unlike her husband, her views were moderate enough that she didn’t mind consorting with Muggles and Muggle-borns as long as it was for a magical purpose, so she gracefully played her part as hostess.

            After some vapid pleasantries and some finger foods that nobody ate, the mothers (whose numbers had by now dwindled down to about forty) settled down in the comfortable armchairs that surrounded the cavernous, black-marble fireplace in Narcissa’s golden ballroom.

            “Our numbers seem fewer than before,” Narcissa commented critically without even giving a preliminary introduction. “Where is everybody?”

            “Well, Molly’s Great-aunt Muriel just died,” Martha Bones said, “so I suspect she’s busy cleaning up the mess.”

            “Methinks that’s merely her excuse,” Xenophilius Lovegood said pensively. He was the exception to the father rule, but he could be so androgynous that he counted as a mother half the time anyway. “She harbors a burning hatred for the Malfoy family, and I’m afraid she still sees you, Narcissa, as a Malfoy.”

            “I am devastated,” Narcissa said simply, without a single twitch in her countenance, “but I must survive such a crushing blow and continue my life without the redhead.”

            “And Bernice Finch-Fletchley has a subconscious psychological fear of magic,” Emma Granger informed them. “She seemed fine during the last meeting, but when I was calling to inform everyone of the next meeting, she was a bit too quick in insisting that she couldn’t make it.”

            “I don’t know what she’s afraid about,” Kayla Creevey eagerly. “I find it fascinating.” And indeed she did—she had spent the last few meetings goggling at the moving portraits, inspecting the magical household supplies, and summoning the house-elves with a snap of her fingers. The house-elves tickled her especially; she’d order them to get her various exotic dishes like escargot and engera, or perhaps a manicure set, or she’d even order them to braid her hair and give her soothing massages. She never ate any of the food or used the manicure, and she always took the braids out, but she cooed happily over the house-elves as she returned the unused items and ordered them to put everything away. By now, every woman in the PTA was sick of her.

            “We noticed,” Narcissa said dryly. “Now what’s on our agenda for today?”

            “I have an item of complaint!” Martha Bones inserted suddenly, her voice carrying an unpleasant whine. “It’s about a letter I got from my daughter Susan.”

            “Would it happen to pertain to that play Dumbledore’s decided to put on?” This question came from a weedy sort of woman with platinum blond hair that tapered at the neckline of her painfully crisp business robes. She squared her pointed shoulders and gazed fiercely at Martha, her stone-black eyes demanding an answer. Her whole posture, in fact, demanded not just an answer, but a total compliance to her unbending will.

            “You’ve heard about it, Ivana?” Martha said.

            “Dumbledore saw fit to send me a letter, informing me that my son Clifford has secured the role of some… battle hero.” Her tone of voice suggested that she was still able to beat the stuffing out of her poor son, even if he became a battle hero in _real_ life. “That old man writes me for the most asinine reasons.”

            “Undoubtedly because he knows it annoys you,” Xenophilius put in helpfully.

            Ivana turned around and glared at the crazy little man. “ _Please_ , Mr. Lovegood, if you cannot think of anything useful to say, just shut your mouth!”

            “Ah, let’s cease the Mr. Lovegood refuse,” came the reply. “I insist you call me Xenophilius.”

            Ivana settled back into her armchair with a huff and didn’t grace him with a reply, mostly because she didn’t want to admit that she had a hard time pronouncing his first name.

            Mrs. Bones cleared her throat loudly, and everyone stopped their side conversations and looked up at her (except for Kayla Creevey, who was ordering pomegranate juice from a beaming house-elf).  “To return to the topic at hand,” she said sternly, “my darling Susan is being forced to perform in the play against her will.”

            “Against her will?” Xenophilius questioned. “But did she not audition? I heard that just about everybody auditioned for the play, save for Luna’s Heebripple and a few First-Years.”

            Mrs. Bones looked a bit flustered as she replied, “Well, yeah… Of course she auditioned. But she wants to quit, and… and now Dumbledore won’t let her.”

            “So what’s the dilemma?” Xenophilius said.

            “The dilemma? Well, the dilemma is… is that she’s stuck in the play,” Mrs. Bones managed. She obviously hadn’t put a lot of thought into this.

            “Is that all?” Xenophilius said.

            “Well… I don’t know. She tried to tell me more, but apparently Dumbledore put some spell on… on _something_. Anyhow, she’s forbidden to tell me what’s going on, so naturally I smell something foul going on.”

            “I’ll look into it,” Ivana said shortly. “I was going up to Hogwarts today anyway.”

            “To visit Poppy-pop again, methinks,” Xenophilius said with a sly grin. “How fares the ol’ nurse these days?”

            Ivana glared once more at Luna’s irrepressible father and said, “If you still think I go up to Hogwarts a dozen times a year just to visit Madam Pomfrey, then you seriously need to feed yourself to one of those ridiculous Crumple-face Gackles that you write about in your ridiculous magazine!”

            But Xenophilius was unfazed. As Ivana turned her gaze away from him, he half-coughed, half-whispered, “ _PER-ee-uhd!_ ”

            Ivana whirled around for a third time, very much incensed: She was in a particularly stern mood today, and Xenophilius triggered the tic in her forehead far more furiously than he normally did. But before she could get another word in, Narcissa broke through the argument with a loud: “Kayla!”

            Mrs. Creevey jumped and looked up nervously from the house-elf she had just summoned. “Yes?”

            “However many times you snap your fingers, that house-elf is _still_ going to come,” came the laden reply.

            “Oh… yeah, I know,” Kayla said happily. “It’s really cool; I love seeing just how much these things can get me!”

            “I concur, it _is_ most fascinating,” Xenophilius Lovegood cut in. “Here, allow me to demonstrate.” He snapped his fingers, and a beautiful young house-elf in a black velvet pillowcase arrived in front of his chair. “Your name is now Barbarella, little beastie,” he informed the creature severely, his hand stretched towards her like an impetuous monarch. “You will answer to nothing but Barbarella from now on, you got that? Now I have some orders for you.”

            The house-elf flourished a bow that scraped her nose to the floor. Xenophilius grinned indulgently and said, “Barbarella, Mrs. Creevey wants to play Dominatrix Muggle. Get her a one-third-meter vibrating dildo and some house-elf bestial pornography. Chain your naked body to her ankle and give her the longest, strongest whip you can find. Once she’s done toying with you, she wants to rape your youngest child, so bring him along for the ride as well.”

            The mothers gaped at Mr. Lovegood, hardly daring to believe that he said what they just thought he said. To their immense sorrow, however, they had heard every word correctly. After another intricate bow, Barbarella the house-elf disappeared, and fifteen second later she reappeared with a pop, accompanied by a baby house-elf barely the size of Kayla’s fist. Barbarella handed the pornography, the dildo, and the whip to the speechless Mrs. Creevey, and then proceeded to chain herself to the Muggle’s ankle. She situated herself, spread-eagled and naked, against the ground, and thrust her child forward in a position that mirrored her own. Then she squeaked, “All set, oh mighty Muggle! Now whip me, please.”

            Mrs. Bones looked ready to be sick. Narcissa shook her head in embarrassment. Kayla goggled at the cat-of-nine-tails, the spiked dildo, and the pictures of house-elves being ravaged by Wizards thrice their size. Xenophilius looked immensely pleased with himself. And Mrs. Granger shook her head wonderingly and murmured, “So _this_ is what S.P.E.W is all about…”

            And from that day onward, Kayla Creevey never summoned a house-elf again.

 

**********

 

            As she finished up a batch of paperwork for the comatose First-Year, Madame Pomfrey suddenly remembered something. With a frown she went to check the calendar that hung in office. It was Sunday, she knew, but was it the 1st of November or the 2nd? _Please let it be the 1 st!_ she begged. _Please, please, PLEASE let it be the 1 st!_

It was the 2nd. “ _Damn_ it!” She shrieked in an irrepressible outburst of fury. “Damn it, damn it, _damn_ it! Argh, I hate my life!”

            Every thirty days, like clockwork, one her old students dropped by to visit her: Ivana something-or-other. She couldn’t even remember the bitch’s last name. What did it matter, anyway? All that really mattered was that Ivana had been a brat when she was young and had grown up to be a bossy, irritating cunt, which Poppy Pomfrey found a thousand times more annoying. Oh, and Ivana was the biggest cheapskate alive. Although she had never been short on money growing up, she had limited herself, at tops, to two or three outfits; they were always washed, pressed, proper, and striking, but she spent half her time letting everyone know the great deal she got for them after searching through Gladrag’s discount section for three hours. The same went for her school supplies and her dormitory furniture. She never spent more than seven galleons and 8 sickles on a book, she managed to buy all her potions products in bulk, and she never bought herself anything more expensive than that 18-galleon hard-backed chair from Rhonda’s Magical Repository. This acute consciousness in money spending wasn’t such a bad trait in itself, but she spent half her waking hours rhapsodizing about her acute cleverness and intuition to everyone that happened to pass her way. It was more than a little unbearable.

            There was a tapping on the Infirmary door. Madame Pomfrey rapidly shut the door to her office and ducked under her desk, waiting as the second hand on the clock behind her edged slowly around the face, accompanied every twenty seconds by an increasingly weak knock. _Just a bit longer, and she’ll go away!_ Poppy told herself, foolishly indulging in a nonexistent hope. It wasn’t until she heard the voice of a young boy crying out, “Madame Pomfrey?” that she left her office and let the visitor in.

            “It’s my friend,” whimpered the tiny boy, who couldn’t have been past his Second Year. “We, uh, were just sort of fooling around and, uh…” He straightened his glasses, which had begun to slip down the length of his perspiring nose, and gestured to the freckly girl who stood beside him. Her was face was screwed up in an excruciating amount of discomfort as her stomach hung from her gaping mouth. Her jaw was open just enough to keep the organ from choking her, but she had to close it enough so that it didn’t fall out and take half her insides with it. Even so, she cupped her hands under her chin, as if expecting her precarious grip to fail her at any moment.

            “Not to worry,” Madame Pomfrey sighed. “It’s just a normal case of Organ Regurgitation.”

            “There’s a name for it?” the boy asked, horrified.

            “Of course,” Madame Pomfrey said crisply. “It happens all the time, normally when one combines a careless spell with an acid reflux antidote. I suppose Professor Snape set you the potion for homework?” The little boy nodded. The Hogwarts nurse ushered the girl into the room and said crisply, “Next time, _listen_ when Professor Snape warns you about the side effects and possible accidents. I _know_ he informs you, because this has happened before. Just because you hate the man doesn’t give you an excuse to ignore everything he says.”

            And with that she cast a quick _Finite Incantatem_ , and the girl’s stomach squeezed its way down her throat, much to her consternation. Although the little thing went breathless for only ten seconds or so, she refused to be calmed down afterwards.

            “Off with you, now,” Madame Pomfrey said brusquely after ten minutes of tears. “Really, this commotion is too much over a mere Organ Regurgitation! My comatose patient needs peace and quiet!”

            That, and she wanted to retreat to her office before Ivana showed up. Apparently the woman was just as much of a cheapskate as before. Despite her well-paying job in the Ministry, she only spent 10% of her earnings (a stricture she followed with obsession), bought only the cheapest health food for her and her son, and never made any room in the budget for vacations or Christmas presents. Merlin, she felt sorry for the boy… what was his name again…? Loser, or something like that. Ah, what did it matter what his name was? He was the wussiest person in all of Hufflepuff—no, in the whole school—and he lived in constant fear of what his mother was going to do to him.

            There was another knock on the Infirmary door, clean and loud. Poppy’s heart skipped a beat ( _certainly_ it was Ivana this time!), and she sprinted back towards her office, hissing over her shoulder, “Get out, you two! Shoo, shoo, my patient needs—” But before she could finish her sentence, she was in her office with the door closed. For a moment she heard jumbled voices—two belonging to the timid little children and a third belonging to an irrepressible older woman. And when Madame Pomfrey heard that third voice, her heart sunk— _She_ had arrived.

            By far the worst thing about Ivana during her school career was that she blatantly stole Madame Pomfrey’s tampons every time she had her period. The first time, when she was twelve, she had stumbled into the Hospital Wing to ask Madame Pomfrey why blood was leaking down her legs. The nurse had to explain the process of menstruation, and she gave the little girl some tampons to help plug up the flow. However, if there’s one mistake that one should never make, it’s being generous to a cheapskate. After that first time, Ivana never bought a tampon of her own, but waltzed into the Hospital Wing every time she had her period and took some from Madame Pomfrey’s stash. It didn’t matter that they were a size too large for her; she said it was better for them to be too big than for them to leak blood and ruin her stockings, and that she’d manage to deal with it.

            _Maybe if she doesn’t see me she’ll go away_ , Madame Pomfrey thought desperately. She shrank against her desk and waited for a couple tense moments, hoping that her rustling apron wasn’t making too much noise—in her super-sensitive state, it sounded to her like a kite being ripped apart by a heavy wind. Whether she was imagining the noise or not, the door to her office still burst open, and Ivana marched in, her stiletto heels going _click-click_ most annoyingly against the tile floor beneath her. Not even acknowledging the nurse’s presence, she began rooting through the file cabinet in the corner.

            Yes, Ivana still stole herself some tampons, despite the fact that she was grown and had a house of her own. It had been irksome enough when she was in her school years, but Madame Pomfrey had been floored when the girl appeared again in the summer after her seventh year. From then on, the girl had ceased to be Ivana—she became Tampon Lady.

            After this unofficial christening, Madame Pomfrey started hiding her tampons, each place more unlikely than the one before. She stashed them with the bedpans, but Tampon Lady found them in fourteen minutes. Pomfrey countered by stuffing them into her Every-Flavored Beans jar, but her nemesis discovered them after three-quarters-of-an-hour. It took Ivana only nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds to find them next month, hidden behind the clock. The month after that she marched into the office and brazenly thrust her hand into Madame Pomfrey’s voluminous pockets, discovering the tampons in three-and-a-half seconds flat, eerily emulating Roderick Plumpton’s infamous golden snitch capture of 1921. The nurse kept up the futile game, but it never fazed Tampon Lady, who willingly spent hours searching for those elusive tampons, refusing to use a Summoning Charm out of perverse stubbornness, even when Madame Pomfrey lied and said she lost them. This dragged out for thirteen months before Madame Pomfrey gave up and left them in the second drawer of her filing cabinet with the other feminine supplies. Now that Tampon Lady knew where the treasure was buried, Poppy had hoped she’d be in and out like a hot flash, but recently the nurse had been severely disappointed. If those tampons were easy to find, Tampon Lady made up for it by taking her own sweet time in transferring them to her pockets (she was too much a cheapskate to buy a purse)

            “You know about the play Dumbledore’s putting on,” Tampon Lady said without so much as a _hello_. It wasn’t a question, either: Madame Pomfrey felt like she was being interrogated.

            “Yeah, the new version of the Founders Play,” Madame Pomfrey said irritably.

            “My son’s in it—he’s playing some… battle hero.”

            “Mmph,” Madame Pomfrey grunted sourly, wishing that the lady would just steal her tampons and leave in peace.

            “I don’t know why Dumbledore gave him that role. Clifford’s really a wimp.”

            “Uh-huh—wait, did you call your own son a wimp?” Madame Pomfrey looked up at Tampon Lady incredulously.

            “You heard me,” Tampon Lady said, turning around to give Madame Pomfrey the famous Tampon-Lady-stare. It involved a slight squint of the eyelids that would have looked lazy had it not been so reprimanding, a twisted pursing of her painted lips that stood out starkly on her face, and a slight wrinkling of the nose that gave her a sour look indeed.

            “But… but he’s your…”

            “Whatever.” Tampon Lady turned around again and began sorting through the tampons, trying to find the ones that best matched her vagina. “I picked my strongest, healthiest friend to be my sperm donor, but he must have had a defective gene in him _somewhere_ , because Clifford is truly the most spineless kid I’ve ever seen.”

            Tampon Lady had conceived Loser through in vitro fertilization, and she let everyone know this as soon as possible, most likely to prove that she was an independent woman who could raise her own child without the interference of some worthless male party, thank you very much.

            “Dumbledore is going senile in his old age; there’s no other explanation for it,” Tampon Lady said decisively. “Casting my son as a _battle hero_ … huh! I raised him to be obedient, not heroic! And of course I have succeeded—he’s as pliant as any parent could wish for, and as accommodating a child as most parents only _dream_ about.

            “I named him after my grandfather.” Madame Pomfrey already knew this, but she didn’t bother telling Tampon Lady. If she talked too much, Tampon Lady would take it as an invitation to waste a couple few hours of her valuable time, in which she’d hog the conversation and generally annoy her to bloody hell. Not that she didn’t already hog the conversation and annoy her to bloody hell… “Clifford: what a nice, strong name it is! His middle name—Oliver—belonged to my own father, may he rest in peace.”

            “And you were named Ivy, after your grandmother, but you changed it to Ivana because Ivy sounded too gentle,” Madame Pomfrey said in a monotone, rolling her eyes. She couldn’t help herself; but she couldn’t bear listening to Tampon Lady reciting her banal family history _again_. “Go find your son or something. I’m sure he’s anxious to see you.”

            “Stop fussing, I shall,” Tampon Lady said peevishly as she slid the filing cabinet shut. “But first I’ll head up to Dumbledore’s office—I’m going to find out more about this new play.”

            Shortly afterward Tampon Lady left. Madame Pomfrey let out a long, loud groan and slammed the cabinet drawer shut. “Rrrgh, I hate that woman!” she grumbled angrily as she went out to check on her patient.

             

**********

At that moment, Dumbledore was entertaining a lady friend in his office. Snape sat in a hard-backed chair next to her, his arms crossed and his face drawn up in a pout. He was quite put out by the situation because he had been discussing a new potions rubric with the headmaster when the ancient woman burst in without so much as knocking, and she rudely butted into their conversation with one of her own. As far as he could gather, she and Dumbledore went _way_ back (to the 1910s, if Snape’s ears were still working correctly), and it had been half-a-century since they last met. Her name was Connie, perhaps short for Constance, but Snape had yet been unable to catch a surname. Oh, and she was a Muggle, which broke the International Code of Secrecy to pieces, but when had Dumbledore been worried about something as insignificant as rules?

“It’s an awfully nice place you got here, Al,” she remarked, her voice entirely too jolly for someone so blanketed in face wrinkles and frizzy white hair. “You, headmaster… I can hardly believe it! You were ever the mischief-maker in your youth.”

            “Ah, if there’s two things that bear down upon us the greatest, it is age and responsibility,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. Snape scoffed less-than-surreptitiously into his fist. He was unable to imagine a time when Dumbledore had _ever_ let his age or his responsibility get in the way of creating erratic prankishness that he normally left for others to clean up.

            “Well, if you must, Albus,” Connie said, quirking her tangled eyebrows, “I’m sure you know where I’d like you to bear down.”

            “I know just the spot you’re talking about it,” Dumbledore returned slyly, “though I’d need a couple tries to get back in practice. What do you say, my old girl?”

            Connie feigned offense and gave Dumbledore’s arm a light slap. Their sagging skin reverberated from the contact and slid in seven different directions as once. “ _Old girl?_ Utterly preposterous; you must have at least twenty years on me!”

            Dumbledore flicked his wet, pink tongue at her and replied, “Twenty years’ experience, that is! I’ll bet I could teach you a thing or two, if you get my drift.”

            By now Snape was beginning to feel sick. Either he had brewed too many mind-altering potions in the past, or else he was actually witnessing a pair of century-old people exchanging sexual innuendoes. Or maybe it was a bit of both. Whichever way, he still disapproved of this Connie character—she was too much like Dumbledore, and even _one_ Dumbledore was a chore to get used to.

What’s worse, they kept it up! When someone knocked on the door, and when Dumbledore called: “Come in!”, Connie burst into a fit of giggles and said, “I’d like _you_ to ‘come in,’ Allie boy!”

“Shut up, both of you!” Snape hissed. “She’s coming over here!”

            In this case, “she” happened to be Hermione. But Dumbledore, having not yet espied his smartest student, snorted forth another giggle and prolonged the tiresome joke with: “Who’s coming over here? I dearly hope it’s you, Connie!”

            Unable to stamp on Dumbledore’s foot in the presence of a student, Snape merely snarled at the headmaster and whipped his head around furiously to bark out: “What are you doing here, Miss Granger?”

            “I…” Hermione looked suddenly taken aback in the presence of Snape and the strange old lady. “I… well, Headmaster, I wanted to talk to you about the Founders Play.”

            “Talk away, my dear,” Dumbledore said. “I did tell you about the play, Connie, didn’t I?”

            “Twice,” Connie said, grinning. “Which part are you playing, Miss Granger?”

            “The librarian’s lover,” Hermione said hesitantly, nervous about talking to a stranger. “But I didn’t want to talk about that. I wanted to address… well, two things, actually.”

            “I am agog to learn, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said pleasantly as he leaned forward across his cluttered desk to listen to her.

            “First, it’s Xaxis’s use of the word ‘Mudblood,’ ” Hermione said. “He uses it eighty-six times throughout the play, mostly in a derogatory context.” The last phrase was more of an afterthought.

            “And that offends you?” Dumbledore sighed. Connie smirked wryly at the Muggle-born, as if she thought it petty to be offended over such a matter.

            “Oh no, not at all!” Hermione said quickly. “No, no, no. It’s just this: I was doing some research the other day, and I found out that it wasn’t until two hundred years after the last Founder died that the world ‘Mudblood’ entered the English language. As for the word ‘arse,’ it didn’t come to be a vulgarity pertaining to the backside until recently. And then there’s time when you use the word ‘ass’ instead; I don’t meant to be critical, Headmaster, but ‘ass’ is a bit too Americanized—you should stick to ‘arse.’ ”

            Snape barely managed to hold back an incredulous bark of laughter. How could anyone stand to be _that_ obnoxiously smart? How many hours of her life had she wasted this time in order to find a few flaws in Dumbledore’s script that didn’t even matter in the first place?

“Well, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore began calmly, “it’s like this—”

Whatever it was like, none of them found out, because at that moment the door burst open and an irritable weed of a woman marched into the room, smoothing a few nonexistent wrinkles out of her business robes. “Dumbledore, tell me more about this Founders Play,” she ordered him coolly. She gave no greeting, she didn’t apologize for interrupting the conversation, and she didn’t even acknowledge the other people in the room.

            “Ah, Ivana,” Dumbledore grinned, for indeed it was her. “Glad you could stop by.”

            “I don’t care for your pleasantries,” she said, dismissive, as she wrinkled her nose distastefully. “Just answer my question.”

            “We were just talking about the Founders Play,” Dumbledore said happily. “Miss Hermione Granger here was exercising her deep insight in regards to some of the more colorful terminology found amongst the script’s knowledgeable depths.”

            “I hear that the Bones girl wants out,” Ivana continued, almost as if she hadn’t heard Dumbledore speaking, “and yet you won’t let her go. You must tell me why.”

            “Oh, half the cast wants to quit,” Dumbledore replied cheerfully. “Don’t they, Miss Granger?”

            Hermione jumped and blushed at being put on the spot, especially with such an incriminating question. She hated the play—really, she did; nothing would be better than Dumbledore calling the entire thing off—but at the same time she didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings. After all, this was _his_ play, and he had obtained their service, however sneakily, and, well… Hermione always wanted to take a stab at acting anyway, and she wasn’t yet about to give it up because of a few (okay, a lot of) unfavorable conditions. Hence, she only managed to stammer out, “Uh… uh, well, it’s not so—”

            “Tell me why you find it necessary to do the play in the first place, then,” Ivana said, her voice laden with superciliousness. “ _I_ certainly declare it to be a waste of everyone’s time, including your own.”

            “Fear not, Ivy darling,” Dumbledore said, “the students will come round. Give it a month or two, and they’ll get used to the demands I ask of them. By opening night, you’ll never see a better group!”

            “I seriously doubt that,” Ivana replied, as if her word was the be-all-end-all. “You should just disband the silly thing; after all, who wants to learn more about the Founders Four? Nobody.”

            “I thank you for your most _constructive_ criticism,” Dumbledore replied, ineffably cheerful in tone, “but I am afraid I must ask you to leave me now. See, I was in the middle of entertaining three charming guests, and they all want decidedly different things.”

            “Hoohoo, you know what _I_ want, Albus!” Connie cackled gleefully. Snape and Hermione blushed at the indecency, but Ivana paid it no attention. In fact, she was halfway to the door by the time Dumbledore had finished talking.

            When the door closed behind Ivana, Dumbledore turned back to Hermione and said, “So sorry for the interruption, Miss Granger. As I was saying, it is simply impossible for me to acquiesce to your demands. There is something called “poetic license,” and I have taken it. ‘Mudblood’ and ‘arse’ certainly weren’t used as profanities back in Gryffindor’s day, but then again, if I wanted to be painfully accurate, I would have written the entire play in Old English, and then no one would understand it. Trust me, it’s better the way it is.”

            Hermione shrunk slightly under the rebuttal, but she still had enough in her to counter with: “Well, at least change the ‘ass’ back to ‘arse.’ ”

            “Once again, my dear, not possible,” Dumbledore said amiably. “I use it for the rhymes. Pairing ‘fucking ass’ and ‘’tarded spaz’ is enough of a stretch already, but ‘fucking arse’ and ‘’tarded spaz’ couldn’t do at all. Certainly you must see that, Miss Granger?”

            Now that her ideas had been pronounced worthless, Hermione wilted before the headmaster. She picked nervously at her skirt and said, “Okay then, Headmaster. Uh… well… Thank you for your time. Yes, well. Bye, sir.”

            And she beat a shameful retreat. Snape sighed in relief as the door closed behind her. “I can’t stand her,” he huffed. “It is sinful for an egotistical Gryffindor to know so much and yet be so useless. It is a wonder her head doesn’t explode.”

            “If it did, I’m sure that tremendous bush of hers would catch it all before it splattered the walls,” Connie said, giggling. “Does she do her hair like that on purpose?”

            “No, it’s like that naturally,” Dumbledore said with an indulgent smile.

            “Hmm, poor thing,” Connie tutted. “I’ve never seen such hair in all my born days. If she shaved herself bald, she could cloth a whole third-world country.”

 

~~~~~

 

            When Hermione left Dumbledore’s office, Ivana was waiting for her on the spiral staircase. “You, girl,” she said, “tell me what Dumbledore meant by _colorful terminology._ ”

            Hermione jumped at being addressed so brashly. “Oh! Well, it’s, um, like… well, the language, I suppose.”

            “The language?” Ivana said, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you mean _bad_ language!”

            Hermione shrugged. “I can’t say any more, Mrs., uh…” she waited for Ivana to give her a last name, but none came, so she blustered onward. “Dumbledore put a spell on the parchment that keeps us from saying too much.”

            Ivana frowned at Hermione and took a couple steps closer, bringing them to an uncomfortably close proximity. “Tell me about this spell,” she ordered. Hermione could feel her odorless breath on her face.

            “The spell is, uh, designed to keep us from backing out of the play or revealing anything big about it,” Hermione said. “If you’re interested in the really bad parts of the play, you’ll have to ask Dumbledore.”

            Ivana wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Not when his ghastly lady friend is up there with him. The two of them are way too old to be carrying on the way they do.”

            Hermione shrugged again and offered clinically, “No, not really. Sexual desire is a natural thing, even among the really old. I’ll bet Dumbledore still copulates on occasion, perhaps even with that ‘lady friend’ of his.”

            Ivana took a sharp step backwards and huffed indignantly at the Gryffindor bookworm. “If you’re going to crack crude jokes, I must insist on leaving your presence at once!” she barked furiously. “I have better ways to spend my time.”

            And she marched off, while Hermione stumbled down after her, eyes wide and hands flailing as she called, “No, it wasn’t like that, you misunderstood…!”

            But Tampon Lady didn’t reply. Instead, she left the bushy-headed brunette’s presence, fingering the quill she held in the pocket and figuring that she’d have to owl the PTA as soon as possible and tell them about the latest development. This play, it seemed, would have much too worldly an effect on their impressionable students, if what that know-it-all Gryffindor said was really true. This was the kind of risqué school activity that must come to an end—the sooner the better!

            Yet before any of that, she needed to find a bathroom and plug up her vagina before it started bleeding. This time, however, she had to stay away from Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom; the last tampon-changing in that musty lavatory was an experience that Tampon Lady hoped never to repeat.


	8. What Lips My Lips Have Kissed

            _“WAIT!”_ Trelawney shrieked out this word the very moment after Draco finished rocking over her naked body. The blond Slytherin went rigid from the startling cry, and, once he realized where it had come from, he still didn’t relax.

            “Yes, Professor?” he said stiffly.

            “I…” Trelawney’s words fluttered, unsure, from her lips as she reached up to stroke Draco’s chest with her trembling hand. The difference between their two bodies was staggering. He was young and virile, muscled in cords and rippling knots and shining in a sheen of youth (or was it a sheen of sweat? Either way, it sent her heart into double-speed). Then there was her: old, wrinkled, and sagging in every place imaginable. Her grip was weak against his heaving waist, and her vision was blurred since her glasses had been knocked askew in all the scuffle. She had no idea why he had chosen her as his secret lover, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she didn’t want to lose the special, all-too-brief moments they shared together.

            “Listen, I gotta go—” Draco began to pull out of her.

            “No, not yet!” Trelawney said quickly, pulling him back in. They mashed uncomfortably against each other, his hard stomach meeting her flabby breasts, both glad that they had a cushioned armchair beneath them.

            “I’m real busy, Professor,” Draco whined, squirming. “I have… like homework and stuff.”

            “It’s Sunday afternoon,” Trelawney begged, “can’t you at least hold off until the evening, my dear? Stay just a little… for me.”

            Draco wrested his hips out of her clawing grip and stood up unsteadily. “Look, Professor, I have stuff I need to get done,” he huffed as he crossed over to one of the rickety tables to pluck his discarded silk boxers off of a teacup. “Can’t I stay behind some other time?”

            “If not now, then when?” Trelawney cried frantically, spreading her limbs wide in order to give Draco a better view of her deteriorating body. Her hair, frizzy to begin with, was in brambles around her pockmarked shoulders and sagging mammaries, and, thanks to the abundance of perfumed candles, sweat wept down her legs and arms in beaded drops. She was a mess, she knew, but she had never felt hotter in her entire life, and she wanted Draco again, today, with his Herculean arms prying her legs apart past the point of Muggle possibility and into Magically odd angles, giving him better access to all her sweetest locations. “Please, Draco darling, stay with me! And keep your clothes off… just a little longer?”

            Draco paused with his boxers around his knees. He heaved a sighed and straightened up, giving Trelawney a full-frontal view that made her thighs twitch maddeningly. “Look, I… I just can’t do this… I gotta…”

            “Please!” Trelawney begged. “Please, or I’ll… I’ll… I’ll tell everyone what’s going on!”

            Draco finished pulling up his boxers. The full monty disappeared behind black silk, and Trelawney mourned inside. “Nice threat, Professor,” he sneered, his lip curling. “Go ahead and tell everyone. It’s you that’s going to be charged with statutory rape and fired.”

            “I can’t be charged with rape!” Trelawney squawked. “You’re of age—I can make love with you as much as I please!”

            Draco plopped onto the armchair next to her. “Ah, but you’ll still get fired, certainly you could predict at least that. Student-teacher relationships were against school policies, last I heard of.”

            “Then I won’t tell!” Trelawney moaned miserably, kicking at one of her discarded necklaces where it lay on the ground. “Just… just, please, stay with me…”

            Draco sunk deeper into the cushion, looking rather depressed. “Okay, then,” he relented with a grumble. “I’ll stay for five minutes. How’s that? Then I _really_ have to go.”

            Trelawney melted inside. It was happening at last; Draco was actually spending more time with her! Maybe their next meeting would last ten minutes after the orgasm, then thirty the time after that, then a couple hours… maybe they might end up spending entire nights together! The thought of her frail body encompassed in Draco’s protective arms, their legs intertwined against her magenta bedsheets, sent her clitoris into overdrive, and for a second all she could do was gasp softly to herself as she neared the brink again.

            “Touch me, Draco,” she whispered. “Please, touch me again.”

            Draco rolled his eyes (which she didn’t see), but he stood up dutifully and touched his finger to her forehead.

            “Not there, dear boy, down _here_!” Trelawney cried in sensual agony. She squirmed tremendously, and she brushed the entire length of her leg against the armchair. The movement was enough to set her off, and before Draco could relocate his finger to the desired location she was heaving her weight about in eight different ways. She let out a couple of “DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!” shrieks, and he flopped back into his chair, a bit disgusted with the proceedings.

            “So what the hell are we gonna talk about?” he asked her once she had finally stopped her heavings. “We’re down to three-and-a-half minutes.”

            “I… I…” Trelawney had so much she wanted to tell Draco, so much life to share with him, but there was no way she could fit it all into three-and-a-half minutes. “I… Draco, why me?”

            Draco went rigid again. “How do you mean?” he said, sinking so far into the chair that Trelawney could no longer see his face.

            “I mean… Well, I’m… a teacher. I’m not… beautiful or attractive, not like the other girls running around the castle. Why did you choose me over them?”

            She didn’t see his expression as he stayed silent. She couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking. However, after a long time she heard him mumble, “I, uh… I chose you because, er… you’re all I ever need?”

            “Oh, truly?” Trelawney gushed. “Oh, _Draco_! My love, my life!” And she heaved her old body up from the armchair and ran to jump into his lap. However, she tripped over the table halfway there and sent a crystal ball flying across the room, where it broke a teapot but managed to land on the floor unscathed. She shrieked in shock when she fell into Draco’s lap, then shrieked again when she saw an image flash from the crystal ball.

            “The pool!” she cried, as if possessed. “The pool, the pool!”

            “Sorry?” Draco said, startled. He had shrunk away from the commotion and even now wasn’t bothering to help her up.

            “The pool of water!” she repeated, this time in hushed tones that lost none of their madness. “The pool of water with rows upon rows of candles surrounding it, sending their purple smoke to choke the air with nauseous gas! And in the pool sits a shadow of a person, deserted, destitute, alone, always whispering— _always!_ —‘No more…’ ”

            “Er, what?” Draco tucked his legs behind his butt and leaned into the armchair as far as he could without tipping it over.

            “No more…” Trelawney whispered. “ _In me_ … _no more_ … ah, _what lips!_ ” And she lunged upward and threw herself over Draco’s body, effectively sending the chair toppling over backwards.

            “Hey, what the hell are you doing, woman?” Draco cried, irked, as Trelawney clawed his boxers down his thighs.

            “No more… no more…” Trelawney panted. “In the crystal ball, that’s what.”

            “Sorry?”

            “That’s what I was talking about—the pool, the person, the candles. Saw it, in the ball.” For emphasis, she reached for his exposed testicles, but he slapped her hand away.

            “Stop, we already had sex,” he bitched as he pulled up his boxers again.

            “At least let me look!” she begged plaintively. “Let me see your glorious manhood once more before you go!”

            “Why the hell do you _want_ to see it?” Draco whined. “It’s all flaccid now, why would you want to see a thing like that? I thought you old people were supposed to be, like, grossed out by… uh, by…”

            “We’re not!” Trelawney promised him. “I want to drink in your masculinity with my eyes. Please, my other lovers let me do it!”

            “Others lovers!” Draco yelped, scooting rapidly away from her. “Just how many students have you boinked before?”

            “No, not students!” Trelawney explained hastily. “No, no, no, they were all adults. There was Barnabus Bartleby and Artesimus Fudge and Alb—” she stopped short and clamped a hand over her mouth.

            “Who?” Draco said curiously. “Sorry, didn’t catch the last name?”

            “Ah, what does it matter?” Trelawney wailed dramatically, hoping her hysterics would cover the awkward slip. “You’re the first man in ten years to even _touch_ me! Please, don’t take that from me—promise you’ll always return to me, please.”

            Draco slipped out from her desperate grasp and stood up quickly. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, “but our five minutes are officially up—I gotta go now.”

            “Promise me you’ll return!” Trelawney wailed, stretching her arm out towards the dressing Slytherin.

            “I already did!” Draco cried, a bit creeped out. He hadn’t even started buttoning his shirt before he clambered down the stepladder and out of view.

            Trelawney sunk to the floor, sobbing. She was naked, her leathery skin drenched with the sweat that gathered between her wrinkles. And she was alone again, as alone as she always was after Draco left her.

            “Ohhhh, sweet Merlin!” she wailed aloud. “Sweet, sweet Merlin, why must I live like this? Love, why must you taunt me with your sweet, sweet wiles, before you summon your soul mate, Death, and cut away every tie I hold dear? Ah, Love, are you even real? Is it only Death that fills my life, my soul, my Inner Eye?”

            Those candles were getting to her again. Death, arm-in-arm with Edna St. Vincent Millay and a tactless Laugh Track, materialized amidst the mess of tables and tealeaves and answered her thus:

**_DEATH:_ **

_Ah, Sybil, Love is Life. Life is Death. We are separate, and yet we are the same—if you have one of us, the others must be somewhere close by, if only you would look._

**_SYBIL:_ ** _[despondently]_

_Tell me, Death, why must you always be the one over my shoulder, dressed in black and caped and hooded? Why do you hide your face from me when you show it to those that I love most dearly? Am I not worthy for the journey on which you take them?—Am I as of yet unprepared for the road to the Beyond?_

**_LAUGH TRACK:_ **

_Ahahahaha! Heehee._

**_DEATH:_ ** _[frowns at SYBIL and holds up his/her scythe. The curved weapon is sharp and lethal; SYBIL feels that, were it to strike her, she would leave this world instantly, yet she also feels that—were this to happen—she would feel no pain, none at all!]_

**_SYBIL:_ **

_Well, won’t you speak to me, my dear?_

_[DEATH runs the scythe gently along SYBIL’S cheek, as if testing its sharpness against her skin. However, the weapon draws no blood. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY detaches herself from DEATH’S arm and patters softly over to SYBIL’S side.]_

**_EDNA:_ ** _[laying a hand on SYBIL’S shoulder]_

_And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain_

_For unremembered lads that not again…_

**_SYBIL:_ ** _[overlapping]_

_Edna, dear, what’s it like when you die?_

**_EDNA:_ **

_…Will turn to me at midnight with a cry._

**_LAUGH TRACK:_ ** _[with a slight build before the outburst]_

_Hahaha. Hahahaha! Hahahahahahahahaha!! Harrrumph._

**_SYBIL:_ **

_Is it scary, Edna? Millay, my dearest, you look so sad—are you in hell? Do you live in that fiery furnace of inferno, your melting face stretched wide with mortal agony, your soul dying again and again in a blaze that can never be quenched or satisfied? Is that what awaits me? It is what awaits us all?_

**_LAUGH TRACK:_ **

**_EDNA:_ ** _[grievously]_

_It’s like this, Sybil—_

**_DEATH:_ ** _[urgently]_

_Edna, don’t tell her—!_

**_EDNA:_ ** _[sighing]_

_I know, Death—if you’ve told me once, you’ve told me a thousand times! Sybil, don’t listen to him/her._

**_SYBIL:_ **

_Who’s him/her?_

**_EDNA:_ **

_Well, Death isn’t fully female or fully male, is it? That wouldn’t make any sense. It’s a bit of both and a bit of neither._

**_SYBIL:_ ** _[immensely confused]_

_So is Death a transvestite or an asexual?_

**_LAUGH TRACK:_ ** _[explosively]_

_HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!_

_[SYBIL, DEATH, and EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY all pause dumbly as the LAUGH TRACK carries on uproariously. After it dies away, they unfreeze and begin speaking again.]_

**_EDNA:_ ** _[voice laden with sarcasm]_

**_LAUGH TRACK:_ **

_HAHAHAHAHAHA! HOHOHOHOHOHOHO! HOOHOO! Heeheehee. Hee. Ha._

**_EDNA:_ ** _[disgruntled at the interruption]_

_Going back to your question, I can’t answer it. Death is a mystery to those who have not yet died, and it must remain so. I’m sorry, but that is how it must be._

**_SYBIL:_ ** _[despairingly]_

_I am unworthy to live this life! Please, Edna, please, Death, when you return from whence you came, take me with you!_

**_DEATH:_ **

_No, Sybil, now is not your time. You must remain on this Earth a while longer._

**_SYBIL:_ ** _[now in hysterics]_

_No, Death, please! Wherever you go, let me follow! You say Life and Death and Love are all the same. As such, this life of mine is intimately connected with Death, as intimately as Death is connected with love. Hence, I love you!_

**_LAUGH TRACK:_ ** _[portending]_

_[DEATH doesn’t answer her. He/she floats towards the trapdoor.]_

**_SYBIL:_ **

_Nooooo! I WANT TO DIE!!_

**_LAUGH TRACK:_ ** _[uncontrollable, hysterical, applauding all the meantime]_

_HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA! HOOHOOHOOHOOHOO!! Ah, Aha-HAAAAAA-hahahahahahaha! Hahaha! Haha. Heehee. Heeeeeeeeeee…_

**_EDNA:_ ** _[follows DEATH, but turns around to tell SYBIL]_

_Goodbye for now. Maybe next time you’ll come with us, or maybe not. Maybe you’ll never come with us. In the meantime, you really need a bath._

**_LAUGH TRACK:_ ** _[follows the other two down the ladder, still giggling]_

_Hahaha. Haha. Hee. Whoo!_

            So Sybil took a bath. She sneaked over to the Prefect’s Bathroom and availed herself of its facilities, which she knew she shouldn’t be doing. But that huge bathtub with its many perfumes was just too alluring after her little fits, and Moaning Myrtle was always willing to give her the password. She also took along her most heavily scented candles and set them up and lit them around the water’s edge in a glowing ring. The vapors produced from these candles, coupled with the heady fumes that rose from the perfumed bath soap, made Trelawney sufficiently light-headed to escape from her troubles for at least a little while.

            After half-an-hour of relaxation, though, the bath began to grow decidedly uncomfortable. Try as she might, Professor Trelawney couldn’t get rid of the memories of all the past lovers who had taken baths with her, back when she wasn’t so wrinkled and hideous. Ah, if only those days were these days! If only she could turn back time itself and enter her youth, before the blight of death stole every bit of happiness that came her way!

            Also, she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she was being watched. Every time her breasts rose above the water (which wasn’t all that often, as they were tremendously saggy), they prickled uncomfortably, as if they felt the gaze of someone’s hot, eager eyes—someone inches away from her, but not quite in sight. It was quite a defiling experience, though it didn’t hold a candle next to the debauchery of the past hour.

 

**********

 

            “That sorry old shit-face!” Draco swore to himself as he swooped towards his common room. Why the hell did Trelawney have to fawn over him so much? It was ten times as bad as all his other paramours combined, and hence ten times more pathetic… no, it was even more pathetic than that, because Trelawney was supposed to be an elderly adult, not a simpering teenager.

            _Human beings are utterly lame_ , Draco sighed to himself. _If I didn’t want to fuck them all, I’d have killed them long ago. Or maybe I can do both: fuck them to death, one by one, until I’ve polished off as many as I possibly can. Certainly there’s enough people in the world for that?_

            And then she had to go ask that question!— _“Why did you choose me?”_ And he had to reply: _“Because you’re all I ever need.”_ Perfect. Absofuckinglutely perfect.

            What in Merlin’s buggering name was he supposed to say?! _“You see, Trelawney, I chose you because I’m an honest-to-goodness nymphomaniac, and apart from having a fetish on little boys and overeager females, I also have a thing for old people, and you fit the bill quite nicely.”_ Yeah, whoever said honesty is the best policy should be crucified. For once, he agreed with Dumbledore, who said (repeatedly, with increasing fervor each time) that the truth was “a beautiful and terrible thing.” Except most of the time it was terrible, not beautiful.

            Speaking of terrible truths, one popped up just two hallways away from the Slytherin common room. It was that Longbottom kid, his beady eyes shining in his sweaty face. “Oh!” the boy gasped in something that sounded like fake surprise. “Uh, Dra—er, I mean, Malfoy… Fancy meeting you here.”

            Neville ( _I mean Longbottom!_ Draco corrected himself hastily) looked like he wanted to look surprised at randomly meeting his costar in the hallway, but he looked more like he was faking the look than actually looking the look.

            “No, Longbottom, it’s not much to my fancy,” Draco replied haughtily. This meeting couldn’t just be a chance meeting, because it was the sixth time in the past four days that he had run into the pudgy Gryffindor right next to the common room. Draco personally thought that Longbottom had some secret agenda in mind, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. All he knew was that the plan was definitely the malicious type, because Gryffindors and Slytherins only treated each other with ill will, and doubtless Longbottom was carrying out a prank or sabotage with the help of his friends. Maybe Potter and Weasley put him up to it.

            “Oh…” Longbottom backed away nervously, stumbling a little as his clumsy feet caught the edge of his robe. “Oh, uh… I had a question about the play, and I—”

            “Excuse me if I don’t stop to chat, but I actually have important things to do,” Draco said, cutting the conversation off at the neck. Then, creeped out for the second time in the past thirty minutes, Draco took the next two hallways to his common room at a canter. Mercifully, the Longbottom drip didn’t follow, and the Slytherin entered his common room undisturbed.

            “Draco, darling! Where have you _been_?” Fuck undisturbed. It was as if one of the Ten Commandments was “Thou shalt bother Draco past his wit’s end as much as thou possibly canst, especially if no other man currently doth.” This time the transgressor was Pansy, who wrapped her slim arms around Draco’s unresponsive waist. Her soft black hair she buried into Draco’s chest as she flicked her tongue gently against the cusp of his neck. The heat of the slimy pink organ against his skin would have been rather sensual had he not been rebuilding his sexual impetus following an orgasm. As it was, it was merely annoying and uncomfortable. He also felt someone’s tongue sneaking up the cuff of his pants— _probably Brittany_ , Draco thought in disgust, _damn cat._

            He pushed both the witch and the cat away from him, and they both protested vigorously: Pansy said, “But I haven’t seen you all day!” and Brittany said, _“MEOW!”_ but he ducked away from both of them and fell into a black leather armchair by the fire.

            “Look, Pansy, I’ve been busy… give me half-an-hour, and then we’ll have sex, as I assume you most desperately desire.”

            “Busy?” Pansy said suspiciously. “Draco, what’ve you been doing? You’re all sweaty.”

            “Uh, exercising,” Draco grunted. “Now stop bugging me, or else I won’t ever feel like sex!”

            “No, don’t say that, Draco,” Pansy said quickly. “I’ll leave you alone, I’ll leave you alone. And after a half-hour, when we have sex, I’ll let you do _anything_ you want! How’s that?”

            “Uh, okay,” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. Pansy was so old hat—the only reason he still went out with her was because having an official girlfriend made cheating all the more exciting. Of course, keeping this girlfriend of his meant they had to have sex on occasion, which was a bit inconvenient because he was getting sick of staring into her face as he pumped up-and-down on top of her. To make the experience a bit more bearable, he used her as his practice doll, always trying out and perfecting new sexual experiments on her first before he performed them spectacularly upon his many sex partners. Pansy was more than willing to do whatever he desired— _probably because she thinks it’ll make me love her more_ , Draco thought with a snort. _As if!_

            So which position should he try out this time? Missionary was a bore, and all the others—69, t-bone, rodeo, helicopter—you name it, he had worn it ragged. He was running out of new positions to try, and it didn’t make him happy.

            There was only one thing for it. “GOOOOOOYLE!” Draco shouted at the top of his lungs. Ten seconds later, Gregory Goyle puffed out of the boys’ dormitories and over to Draco’s side.

            “Yes, Malfoy,” he said meekly, “what do you want?”

            “What did I tell you, Goyle!” Draco snapped, jabbing a finger at Goyle’s hand. The thickset boy looked down at the hand in question, which was holding a massive book, and he gasped.

            “Oh, sorry, Draco,” he said quickly, laying the book precariously on the tiny coffee table next to Draco. “No more reading books in public.”

            “No more reading books _period!_ ” Draco snapped. “You are my flunky, Goyle, you got that? Flunkies must _never_ appear smarter than the person to whom they toady, and you are way too damn smart!”

            Goyle tried his best to look abashed. “Sorry, Draco, but I can’t help it. I try to act dumb, but I just sort of seem to… slip up.”

            “Huh, and you make some fucking huge slip-ups, too,” Draco said bitterly.

            “C’mon, they’re not too huge!” Goyle argued. “Besides you and Crabbe, only Pansy really knows how smart I am!”

            “But even _she_ shouldn’t know!” Malfoy cried, throwing his hands up. “You may’ve fooled all the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws into thinking you’re the world’s thickest galoot, but there’s been whispers among the Slytherins—idle whispers maybe, but still whispers!—that you’re perhaps not as dumb as you appear.”

            Goyle tugged nervously at his sleeve and tried not to sound too sulky when he answered, “But what does it matter, so long as I don’t appear smarter than you? Can’t I get a couple O’s once in a while? Can’t I talk about the latest book I read, just a little bit? Don’t you do the same on occasion?”

            “Not the way you do,” Draco huffed. “You shouldn’t be getting E’s, even—I know I said you could, but you take that to mean you’re allowed to earn an E on every damn paper we write! Can’t you pretend to fuck things up once in a while and get a T?”

            “No,” Goyle said, bewildered. “I don’t know how to get a T without leaving the whole paper blank. It’s like I… like I can’t stop myself from doing things right. Anyway, what’s the matter with all that?”

            “The matter is that you’re not supposed to have any brains at all!” Draco hissed. “I chose you as a trophy friend over Nott and Zabini because you’re the kind of sycophant I’d hang around only because you can beat up anyone who tries to annoy me! All I want you to do is flex your muscles and looked menacing.”

            “And suggest new sex positions,” Goyle added. Draco glared furiously at him, and the smart young Slytherin pouted. “What, that’s why you called me in the first place, isn’t it? You’ve just come back from fucking half-a-dozen girls, and now Pansy wants to be the seventh. And you’re sick of having sex with her, so you want to use her as—”

            “Stop analyzing the fucking thing,” Draco interrupted viciously, “and give me a fucking position!”

            Goyle took the armchair on the other side of the coffee table and picked up the book. “No reading—!” Draco lashed out, but Goyle cut him short.

            “I’m just finding a useful passage here,” he said. “Ah, here it is. Read these three pages.” He indicated the pages to Draco, who languidly took the book from Goyle and hefted it into his lap.

            For a minute or so the silence in the common room was comfortable, and Draco read the sex scene (for that was what filled those three pages) with relative relish. After that minute, however, the scene took a decided turn towards the repulsive, presenting Draco with such an idea that he could barely begin to fathom the fact that someone would actually _want_ to do it. The repulsiveness continued and continued, until Draco could only clutch the edge of his seat as he reeled inwardly against the onslaught of mental images that left nothing to his imagination.

            “Why the hell do you read this stuff?” Draco cried when he finally finished. “That’s the sickest things I’ve ever read in my entire life! You’re sick, too, Goyle, reading that. Just sick!”

            “No, no, no, it’s not sick at all,” Goyle said quickly. “I mean, the scene is sick, but I’m not sick for reading it, because the book was nominated for the Nebula Award in 1973 and won the National Book Award in 1974, and it was also considered for the Pulitzer Prize in the same year, except that—”

            “Shut up,” Draco interrupted callously. “Just shut up and give me one good reason why I should try this with Pansy.”

            Goyle wrung his hands around each other and said cautiously, “Well, it’s an extremely kinky fetish, and I was wondering if, you know, it was really more than just an imagined fetish that authors liked to write about. And I thought, _if there was anyone willing to do it, it’d be Draco!_ You, that is. So try it for me, please, and tell me how it goes. If the stories are right, then it’s supposed to be a real turn-on.”

            “Stories?” Draco cried. “There’s more than one of them? What the hell to you read?”

            “All the acclaimed authors,” Goyle said defensively. “These kinds of books don’t count as porn, really they don’t.”

            “I beg to differ,” Draco said, his voice laden with sarcasm. He stood up and headed for the girls’ dormitories to fetch Pansy.

            “So you’re going to do it?” Goyle asked, his face shining with hope.

            Draco didn’t know why he agreed to this kind of thing, but he did. “Can’t do any harm, I suppose,” he sighed. To tell the truth, he was a slave to his curiosity, and he had to know if something so gross could really be so sexually exciting. After all, when he was twelve he found even the idea of tasting semen to be absolutely vile, but nowadays he was more than happy to engage in the occasional snowball. Perhaps the same line of reasoning worked here.

            So it was that, ten minutes later, he had Pansy holed up behind the curtains of his four-poster bed. They were both naked, and Draco was doing the preliminary strokes to prepare himself for the next half-hour of raunchiness. He waved his wand in order to dim the lights down past the usual state he normally preferred during sex. To tell the truth, he didn’t want to see it as it happened, not this time, at least.

            “So…” Pansy said suggestively, swaying her hips back and forth to accentuate the inflections in her voice. “What do you want to do?”

            “You said we could do anything, right?” Draco said. It was best to make sure he bound her in her promise.

            Pansy licked her lips suggestively and placed her hand gently on Draco’s thigh. “ _Anything_ , Draco darling, anything at all.”

            “Okay, then,” Draco said, more than a little nervous. “I’d like you to… uh, take a shit in my mouth.” Only he said it double-speed, so it sounded more like: “takeashitinmymouth.”

            “Sorry, love, I didn’t hear that,” Pansy purred in his ear.

            Draco tried again, this time placing his lips against Pansy’s moist neck as he murmured, “Take. A shit. In my mouth.”

            Pansy drew away from him and shook her head, as if trying to dislodge something from her unruly ear. “You’re joking, right?” she said, attempting a weak laugh.

            “No,” Draco replied, his face deadpan. Only he actually wished he was: This was going to be so gross. And curiosity was one hell of a bitch.


	9. Loser and the Other Losers (Except for Ron, Who’s No Longer a Loser)

_Dear Narcissa:_

_I visited Dumbledore at Hogwarts yesterday, and I must say that the Founders Play of his has me deeply concerned. Although I wasn’t able to discover much, I have so far learned that it contains inappropriate material, including an as-of-yet undetermined amount of bad language. There may be more than that, but one bushy-haired student told me that Dumbledore cast some sort of spell that disallows her or any student from telling me too much about the play._

_Bad language is a horrid influence on our kids. The world is already deteriorating rapidly, and Dumbledore’s play is only going to make things worse. We must put a stop to it, Narcissa. We must gather the entire PTA—and when I say entire, I_ mean _the entire PTA, not just the meager crop that’s been turning up at the meetings lately—we must gather the entire PTA, I say, and protest the new Founders Play with every ounce of vigor we possess._

_Before we can do that, however, we must know more about the play—we must have some grounds on which to cease its production, after all. This presents a quandary, as none of us are able to find out more about the said play, thanks to Dumbledore’s interfering spellwork. However, there is a way we can circumvent the charm he has cast: house-elves._

_Gather up at least half a dozen of your house-elves, Narcissa, and send them to me. I shall strategize a subterfuge, and they shall spy for us. After all, their magic transcends mere wizarding magic in many areas, and Dumbledore’s spell happens to be one of those areas. They shall spy on the play practices, learn more about the situation, and report back to the PTA. The information they provide should be incriminating grounds for the closure of this sad spectacle._

_Sincerely, Ivana_

**********

 

_[OLIVIER paces angrily between GRYFFINDOR’S desk and bookcase.]_

**_OLI:_ **

_Godric, we are in a hole of shit._

**_GRYFF:_ **

_Ah, Olivier, I can’t see what you mean._

_What crushing forces are we caught between?_

**_OLI:_ **

_You see nothing because that head of yours_

_Is too far up your arse, or someone else’s._

_The state of wizardry’s imperiled greatly_

_By Xaxis and his great intolerance._

**_GRYFF:_ **

_If he hates Mudbloods, that’s his prerogative._

_So long as he lets them learn and lets them live_

_At school, I ask you, interrogative:_

_Can’t tolerance to his own stance we give?_

**_OLI:_ ** _[fiercely, stopping inches in front of GRYFFINDOR]_

_Fuck, no! No tolerance for the likes of him,_

_For he shan’t give back any in return._

_He’ll kill the Muggleborns; he must be stopped,_

_And I’m the man to do it, if you’ll lend aid._

**_GRYFF:_ ** _[sighing, resigned]_

_With what, my friend? Speak up, I shall be staid_

_In what you speculate._

**_OLI:_ ** _[Leaning in even closer]_

_Xaxis’ brother’s son is in your house:_

_Get him to lead me to the sorcerer’s tent_

_At a time when he is gone, but his wife remains,_

_And I’ll seduce his secrets from her lips._

**_GRYFF:_ ** _[Takes a sharp step backward, nowhere near staid]_

_Olivier, how could you suggest such a thing!_

_Allow me to be the one—_

**_OLI:_ ** _[sharply, forcefully]_

_NO, Gryffindor. Stop thinking with your cock._

_You’d screw it up, pun pointedly intended._

_Now aid me, or… or… or-or-o-o-o-o-o-or-or-or…or…_

“Okay, stop.” Dumbledore waved a hand at Loser, whose voice ground to a stuttering halt. “Master Clifford, you were going along so smoothly until that line. What happened?”

            Loser flicked away a moist strand of his lank blond hair with a sorry shrug of his head and shoulders. “I… I don’t know, Duh-Duh-Dumbledore. I, uh…”

            Draco backed away, sniggering quietly to himself, thanking Merlin that he was nowhere near as hopeless as the sorry Hufflepuff.

            “You have nothing to laugh over, Master Malfoy,” Dumbledore said reprovingly, glaring at the Slytherin with a gaze that pierced through the wrinkles on his ancient face. “You may have your lines memorized, but your acting has yet to impress me. You have a difficult balance, trying to portray both Gryffindor’s bravery and Gryffindor’s selfishness. The two traits seem almost paradoxical, but Gryffindor was quite a paradoxical man. He was willing to protect the Muggleborns and their right to study magic at Hogwarts, but otherwise he refused to stick his neck out for them. He humped everything that could hump back, but he felt the desire to defend everything he screwed. Gyffindor was indeed a pervert and a sex maniac, but he had his own unique set of principles. Now get that right.”

            Draco huffed and didn’t reply. How dare the headmaster presume that he, Draco Malfoy, was unable to properly play the role of someone as low as Gryffindor?

            “And as for our renowned battle hero,” Dumbledore said, “you are still not in character. What you really need—what we _all_ need—is costumes. Lavender, Parvati, how far are you through your assignment?”

            Lavender and Parvati were still slaving away on the stage steps with their avalanche of fabric and sewing supplies. They were both very frustrated, apt to snap at anyone who approached within ten feet or dared to speak to them. Parvati’s wand shook over the sewing machine as she magically rewound the bobbin and tangled the thread on accident.

            “FUCK!” she shrieked, slamming a fist into the sewing machine. It broke.

            “Miss Brown, Miss Patil?” Dumbledore tried again, realizing they hadn’t heard him the first time.

            “Shut up and leave us alone!” Parvati snapped back, not even bothering to look up. Hermione looked scandalized at her dorm-mate for insulting a teacher, but Dumbledore merely looked amused.

            “How are the costumes going, my fair ladies?”

            “Like shit,” Lavender said crossly. “ _Reparo_.” Parvati’s sewing machine rearranged its broken pieces back into their original state. “We have a grand total of nine fucking costumes, and we’re on our tenth and eleventh.”

            “Get it done, my ladies,” Dumbledore urged them seriously. “You have only four days, and you still have another 116 costumes to go. That leaves you twenty-nine costumes a day.”

            “Look, Professor Dumbledore,” Lavender fired up angrily, “we have classes, we have a life outside this fucking play, and we simply don’t have time to finish all these costumes! Even with magic, it takes us at least an hour per costume— _at least_!”

            “You better think of something, then,” Dumbledore said unfeelingly. “Twenty-nine costumes a day and an hour per costume means you must work on more than one costume at once.”

            Parvati moaned in rage and whirled to her feet. “Look, old cooze-face, if you want the costumes, _YOU_ do them! I am _sick_ and fucking _tired_ of this whole… _cunting_ play!” To relieve her temper, she aimed a kick at the nearest defenseless object: her sewing machine. It broke again. And her temper was in no way relieved.

            “I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” Dumbledore said, sinfully calm. “This is your job to do, and I have full confidence that you can pull it off.”

            “Because you’re fucking insane!” Parvati railed. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life! One hundred and buggering sixteen costumes in four days—I’m going to kill myself!”

            And she stomped towards the double doors of the hall, not looking back. Lavender cast Dumbledore one deeply filthy glare before hurrying off after her best friend. Then silence reigned over the Great Hall as the forty-eight remaining cast and crew members digested the rude exchange.

            Goyle was the first person to break the uncomfortable silence. “Well, if the two of them each complete one costume an hour, they really only have to work fifteen hours a day to get all the—”

            “Shut your face,” Draco hissed, digging him in the ribs. Goyle complied meekly.

            Goyle had spoken so quietly that nobody really heard what he said. So they stared at Dumbledore until the headmaster said with a grin, “Well, that’s that. Let’s get back to the play.”

            And so they did. But before Draco returned to the center of the stage, Goyle held him back and said, “About the coprophilia thing yesterday—”

            “The what?” Draco snapped impatiently, ungracious in even hinting that his vocabulary wasn’t as big as Goyle’s.

            “The poop-eating,” Goyle clarified gently, too kind-hearted to lord his superior lexicon over Draco. “How’d it go?”

            Draco glared at his flunky and purposefully stepped on his foot, sneering when Goyle let out a yelp of pain. “More effective than any emetic,” he snarled. “You’ve suggested your last sex fetish, Goyle, and this time I _mean_ it!”

            Rubbing his toe, Goyle slumped down at the edge of the stage and sighed sadly. If only he could find a friend who didn’t treat him like shit; if only he wasn’t so meek that he had to rely on someone like Malfoy to be his friend. In fact, friend wasn’t really the right word, was it? He was more Malfoy’s vassal than equal.

            Ah well. If there was one thing he was comforted about, it was the fact that Malfoy _would_ indeed come back for more sex suggestions, whatever he said to deny that. After all, he’d had the same reaction when Goyle suggested the rim job four years ago.

 

**********

 

            On Wednesday morning at breakfast, Pansy sat next to her boyfriend in the Great Hall, picking away fussily at her poached eggs and stuffed French toast, which was when she noticed something peculiarly out of the ordinary. It was Draco: He was making faces. But he wasn’t grimacing over a bite of bad food or scowling at his two henchmen—these faces were in an entirely different league. Looking away from the Slytherin table completely, he waggled his eyebrows and allowed his tongue to slither out of his mouth like a dragon aroused from its lair. He turned his face down towards his plate immediately afterwards. Then he lifted it a second later, at an entirely different angle, and licked his lips with determinedly slow lasciviousness. His nose twitched, as is sniffing out some intoxicating scent. Then, after pressing two fingers to his moist mouth, he turned his countenance back towards his chocolate éclair and pumpkin juice. For five seconds or so he contemplated his food. Then, looking up deliberately for a third time, in still yet another direction, he bit into the éclair with a torturous abandon, slow and long. He worked his tongue into the pastry’s depths, sucking and slurping at the sweet liquids that oozed from the sugary starch and onto his dimpled chin, savoring clearly the delicious mess that claimed his sensuous skin and soft freckles. After jamming the éclair into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed reflectively , still keeping his eyes locked on some point in the distance. Then he consciously raised his finger to his lips and began scooping the slop of chocolate cream into his mouth, licking his appendages with a wanton satisfaction.

            This, Pansy thought, was pretty damn strange. Why would Draco make such a fool of himself at the breakfast table, even if everyone else around him was eating just as messily? Malfoys were supposed to be fastidious folk with rigid behavioral complexes and an aversion to any sort of tomfoolery. They didn’t make strange faces at the breakfast table or eat their food as if they were giving it a blowjob.

            Pansy surveyed the Great Hall and suddenly espied something even stranger. It was three people: Cho Chang, Euan Abercrombie, and Professor Trelawney. Cho’s hands were mining at some out-of-sight location under the table. Euan was rocking on his bench. And Trelawney was trembling in her seat, trying to keep her hands from roaming onto her breasts.

            Three people touching themselves in the Great Hall at breakfast. Definitely not something Pansy saw that often. But what was even more strange is that they all kept turning their heat-seeking eyes to Draco Malfoy. She frowned at the three masturbators, then frowned at Draco, who emptied his glass of pumpkin juice as if nothing had happened. Was it really her imagination, or was something fishy going on?

            She wasn’t the only one who noticed something strange. Goyle was gaping at Draco, his eyebrows raised with shock and even a little bit of disgust. “ _Trelawney?_ ” he half-gagged at Draco.

            “ _Shut the fuck up!_ ” Draco hissed, aiming a kick at Goyle under the table. He missed and hit Crabbe instead, who bellowed like an elephant and upset his pumpkin juice on Daphne Greengrass’s new robes.

            In the ensuing commotion, which involved a dozen or so Slytherins running about and creating a formulaic drama centered around Daphne’s robes, Pansy sat solidly in her place and contemplated the puzzle pieces that had fallen directly in her hands, each right after the other— puzzle pieces that felt like they might too easily fit together. And thus were the seeds of suspicion planted in the mind of Pansy Parkinson.

 

**********

 

            “So here’s what we were thinking.” Eyes wide, shining with a hope she shouldn’t be trusting, Parvati outlined her plan to Dumbledore. It was Wednesday afternoon, and the two costume designers had arrived to practice ten minutes early in order to speak with (or plead with) their headmaster and director. “Me and Lavender—”

            “— _Lavender and I,_ ” Dumbledore corrected her unnecessarily. Except for the icy set in her jaw, Parvati stubbornly ignored him.

            “ _Me and Lavender_ have already made fifteen costumes. That’s quite a feat, isn’t it?”

            Dumbledore shrugged childishly and said, “Not as much as if you’d made all one hundred and twenty-five.”

            The girls’ glares grew as dark as a pair of Death Eaters, and for a fleeting instant they exchanged the mutual fantasy of murdering their headmaster on the spot. The instant passed, however, and Parvati forced her voice to remain calm, with a hint of entreaty, as she continued, “Well… me and Lavender—”

            _“—Lavender and I_ —”

            “ _—me and Lavender_ came up with a brilliant idea. We can buy some costumes from a discount warehouse!”

            “I highly doubt Gladrag’s discount section would cover enough space to satisfy the needs of 110 medieval costumes,” Dumbledore said, matching their determined calm with a determined nonchalance. Parvati doubted he’d show any less interest if they were talking about the weather—in fact, knowing how crazy Dumbledore could get, the weather would probably be of a far greater concern.

            “Then Rhonda’s Magical Repository…”

            “…covers mostly furniture and household appliances,” Dumbledore finished for her. “Try again.”

            So Parvati tried again: “Wholesale Columbine’s.” There couldn’t possibly be anything the problem with Britain’s largest warehouse of magical apparel.

            “No way,” Dumbledore said, grimacing so that the wrinkles in his long nose sank even deeper into his face. “I hate Columbine. She called me a booger back in Second Year.”

            “But Columbine’s dead now!” Parvati gasped out, unable to contain herself. “How could you possibly hold a grudge for that long?”

            “I’ve had well over a hundred years to nurse it,” Dumbledore said. “It’s a tough rock in my old, old heart, I can tell you. It shall remain unmoved and unturned. Any other suggestions?”

            “A Muggle establishment!” Lavender blurted out.

            “Why the fuck can’t it be Columbine’s, though?” Parvati cried furiously. “We shouldn’t have to default to some miserable Muggle clothes shop because Dumbledore has a stupid fucking grudge on a dip-shit back in Second Year.” She glared at Dumbledore with each swearword, defying him to tell her off. He didn’t even pay attention.

            “And yet I remain unmoved,” Dumbledore said joyously. “I am greatly looking forward to seeing all one hundred and twenty-five costumes on Friday afternoon, custom designed and custom made, just as I intended them.”

            “We’ll order them from a special custom shop, a rush job!” Lavender begged. “Get the PTA to fork over a couple thousand galleons, and it’s a real possibility!”

            Dumbledore cocked his head, needing no words to ask her if she seriously thought he’d agree to that. He turned away from them and waved his wand. In the space of a few short seconds the tables folded themselves and zoomed out the double doors, sets of curtains fell in graceful waves to the floor, the foremost grand curtain being in line with the dais that normally raised the staff table above the house tables, rows of lights strung themselves over the stage and throughout various strategic locations in the hall, the makeup station and dressing rooms appeared backstage, the props stacked up in piles behind the curtains, the backdrops appeared in a neat stack in the background, and the technician’s box even sprang up near the entrance to the hall. Everything needed for a play was there… everything, that is, except for the costumes.

            “We can’t even get the spells right,” Parvati moaned softly as Dumbledore pocketed his wand.

            “I assume you’ve already asked Miss Granger for help,” Dumbledore said.

            “Fat lot of good that did us,” Lavender said bitterly. “All she can do is knit ugly hats.” She slumped down on the steps to the stage and let out an endless sigh that echoed in the still hall.

            “Now be fair, my dear,” Dumbledore said, “she can also make socks. You mustn’t shortchange her talent.”

            “Blow me,” Lavender retorted, not in the mood for Dumbledore’s verbal maneuvering.

            “Don’t mind if I do,” Dumbledore said, winking foxily at her before he tripped lightly up the steps and into the backstage area.

            “YOU BELONG IN A MENTAL HOME!” Lavender yelled at his retreating back. “SERIOUS AS FUCK, YOU DO!”

 

~~~~~

 

            It was another day of uninspired rehearsal. Lavender and Parvati sent out vibes so charged with ire that it agitated people who were twenty feet away from them. That, combined with the fact that nobody was yet in costume, made for some spectacularly unconvincing performances. Draco and Neville stumbled about the stage, reciting their lines in such monotonous tones that even Dumbledore began to get annoyed at having to repeatedly stop and restart them.

            “Let’s move on to scene four, shall we?” the headmaster said. “Masters Malfoy and Longbottom, go off to the makeup room to practice your lines with each other.” He shooed the offending actors off the stage and summoned forth Loser, Luna, Eloise Midgen, and Harry. He stopped the latter with a pinch on the cheek and said lecherously, “Been practicing your nude scene, my boy?”

            Harry’s eyes bugged out at the question as he only half-tried to quell a heaving reaction in the pit of his stomach. He was unsure which nauseated him more: the dread of that upcoming nude scene of which Dumbledore had so ungraciously reminded him, or the tone in which the headmaster had delivered the offensive mind-jogger. “Shut the hell up,” he snarled. He turned his gaze deliberately away from the old man, only to see that Ron was grinning and winking at him from backstage. “What’re you gawping at?” he snapped in the redhead’s direction. He turned to face the onstage cast members and said, longsuffering, “Let’s just get this scene over with.”

 

**_RAVEN:_ **

_Young boy, I hear commotion at the door!_

_Didst thou, perchance, allow a visitor_

_To call at such an hour of the night?_

**_JAMES:_ **

_These are the stables, not my private room—_

_Any man may come when he doth please._

_Perchance it is some nightly errand boy_

_Or perhaps—_

_[OLIVIER bursts in from stage right.]_

**_OLI:_ **

_Goddamn, my lad! Why leave the doors so barred?_

_I had to cast a spell to open them._

_[JAMES shrinks away from OLIVIER, hiding behind RAVENCLAW]_

**_RAVEN:_ **

_Olivier, what is the meaning of this call?_

_It’s half past twelve of midnight. Can you claim_

_Emergency that thus explains your actions?_

**_OLI:_ **

_Emergency? Why, one of urgency:_

_The battle with Xaxis is at our door,_

_And I must find me soldiers for the cause_

_Against all evil, and for good and right._

**_JAMES:_ ** _[hesitantly, peeking out from behind Ravenclaw’s skirts]_

_Uh, I don’t really want to join your army._

**_OLI:_ ** _[jovially]_

_Don’t jest with me, my boy, your earnestness_

_Shows on your fair, round face as clear as light_

_That shimmers from a city on a hill._

**_JAMES:_ ** _[a bit sardonic]_

_Gener’l, sir, if you’d look at my face,_

_I fear there’s no such power, nor such will._

**_OLI:_ ** _[seemingly flippant, but very shrewd]_

_Such is your loss, ah, such is your disgrace._

_But think not of disgrace, but now of honor,_

_The heady high that comes from soldier life,_

_And, oh!, my mother, why, I’d swear upon her_

_That a man’s nobility’s naught but through strife._

_You had a mother of your very own?_

_Taught her not you such values to uphold?—_

_The warrior renowned is, too, the warrior bold_

_That shall defy all bane, even alone._

**_JAMES:_ **

_My mother’s dead, as is my family._

_Hogwarts be all I have, and I’ll serve it so._

_Please ask me not to leave its blessed walls_

_To fight a cause I neither know or love_

_When here I can contribute more at home._

_[OLIVIER moves forward to speak again, but there is a knock on the stable doors.]_

**_OLI:_ ** _[muttering to himself]_

_Shit, fuck it, who the hell visits so late?_

_[out loud, in the direction of the door]_

_Come in, whoever the fuck you bloody are!_

**_XAXIS’S WIFE:_ **

_The door is barred with bolts and with a spell._

_[OLIVIER sighs and rushes to stage right to open the door. XAXIS’S WIFE steps into the stable. As she does this, OLIVIER swings the door quickly shut and—]_

—hit Eloise Midgen square in the shoulder. Loser gaped in horror as Eloise let out a startled yelp and tripped over the edge of the stage and off the side. For an age she seemed to hang in the air, supported by nothing and falling towards nothing except pain and hard stone. And fall she did—right into a group of Ravenclaws who were busy painting a backdrop. In the commotion, someone upset a large bucket of red paint, which splattered across the floor like blood. There was a good deal of yelping and screaming, but it was such a mass of struggling limbs and startled faces that it was hard to match the noise to the person from whence it came.

            Loser, too, burst into violent and noisy tears. He fell to his knees at the edge of the stage and leaned precariously over the side to see what he had done to Eloise. When he saw her whimpering as she grasped her oddly bent ankle, sopping with crimson paint, he let out an instinctive cry and stumbled backwards across the stage and into Harry’s legs.

            “Hey, watch it!” the raven-haired boy cried.

            Luna traipsed over to Harry’s side and slid her arm casually around his waist. “It looks like you broke her ankle, Cliffy,” she informed Loser matter-of-factly. “She’s probably in a whole lot of pain.”

            At first it took Loser a second to realize who Luna was talking to; nobody called him Clifford, much less Cliffy. By the time he figured this out, Luna continued talking. “That was a pretty nasty accident. I wonder, then, why everyone is laughing at you? I mean, if Susan was laughing any more, I’d swear she was being inflamed by Horklump pinworms.”

            Loser’s heart, already so low that his chest felt submerged in ice, broke a little more as it did a hop-skip and fell flat. His head whipped painfully in the direction of Luna’s pointing finger, and he saw that she was indeed telling the truth. Susan was standing in the middle of the Great Hall next to Edmund, bent in half as she howled gleefully at Loser’s magnificent error. No, she wasn’t just howling: She was _guffawing_. The laughter that escaped her lips was loud and long and indescribably rude. Her hair tangled about her arms, which she had drawn towards herself in order to clutch at her chortling stomach. Edmund nudged her in the ribs and pointed up at the gob-smacked Loser, causing her to guffaw so hard she looked like she was in pain.

“Good one, Loser!” Edmund shrieked over the commotion. “Bravo!” He gave a round of applause that was swallowed up by Eloise’s pained wails. Marietta was trying to lift her to her feet, but Eloise’s shattered ankle gave no mercy. She wobbled tremendously before spiraling to the ground.

Meanwhile, a small host of house-elves had arrived at the scene of the accident to clean up the paint. The six of them dodged in between the crowd and waved their little hands about in an effort to clean up the mess. Their magic did the work; in a few more seconds, they were out of sight again. Everyone had been too busy paying attention to Eloise to notice the fact that the Hogwarts crest was conspicuously missing from the house-elves’ tea cozies.

Loser was so miserable he thought he was going insane. The crowd’s laughter echoed in his skull, as did their mocking comments: “Gosh, Eloise, sorry you had to go through that!” “What a Loser!” “He’s as clumsy as a troll!” “Ha, battle hero indeed… more like a battle queero! If he was in charge of an army, they’d all be dead in two minutes flat!” And so on and so forth. The gibes piled against one another until they all became a vortex of noise, nuanced bitterly with Eloise’s shrieks and her friends’ urgent consolations. He pressed his hands to his ears, but the room still spun crazily around him, its whine still penetrating his palms and twanging against his eardrums. So he squinched his eyes shut. It was the only way he could escape this!

 A few moments passed: maybe five seconds, maybe five minutes. Anyhow, the next thing Loser felt was someone tugging his arm. Before he fully registered what was going on, that someone had pulled him to his feet and was leading him towards backstage. Loser dared to open an eye and saw that they had left through a side exit created especially for the play, and they were now outside the Great Hall; they were passing through a small corridor, then into the Entrance Hall, and all the meantime the noise of the crowd was fading. Loser’s heart rate slowed to a moderate hoppity-hop-hop as the humiliating scene faded away behind them.

“C’mon, let’s get you outta here,” the person muttered. Loser looked up to see that it was that redhead makeup director, the one who had a name like: “Weasley?”

            “Yup, it’s me,” came the reply. “But call me Ron.” Still holding Loser’s hand, Ronald Weasley led them both out onto the grounds, at which point he broke into a run. They skipped down the steep slope towards the gate, gravity propelling them onward at a startling speed. Loser nearly stumbled over a rock, but Ron gave an extra tug in just the right direction to keep them both upright.

            “Where are you taking us?” Loser whimpered, his panic settling in again.

            “Hey, man, calm the fuck down!” Ron said, and somehow he used a tone of voice that succeeded in doing just that, despite the expletive. It was the kind of command that held a smile in it, despite Ron’s straight-faced countenance. “We’re getting away from the school for a bit, okay?”

            “Why?” Loser asked as they flitted down the steep slope past Hagrid’s hut and towards the gates.

            “Because those guys back there are as crazy as Luna and nowhere near as nice,” Ron replied. “They’re not what you need right now.”

            After that they were too busy running for Loser to ask just what he needed. In a very short time he was out of breath, but Ron pulled him onward just a bit more until they reached a spot at the castle walls very near the gate.

            “Are we leaving the castle?” Loser asked, shocked.

            “I just said we’re getting away from the school, didn’t I?” Ron asked a little impatiently as he tapped his wand against a knobby stone at chest-level. An arch materialized in the wall, allowing them to pass through it and out onto the Scottish landscape outside the castle walls. “Pretty sexing neat, huh?” Ron said, grinning. “Harry put me on to that little trick just last month. We’ve used it twice already to sneak up to Hogsmeade.”

            Loser stared out at the expansive panorama of the mountain range before his eyes, the rocks painted green with the trees that covered them. In the far distance, a river split the mountains all the way to the horizon. Birds filled the gray sky as they flocked south for the winter, much freer in the open air than they appeared on the Hogwarts grounds. Not that the grounds weren’t beautiful… it was just that, next to the untamed nature of the wild countryside, the land inside the castle walls seemed so… tame. Loser felt a queer feeling in his heart, a swelling that he at first mistook for dread. “W-we’re b-b-breaking the rules, aren’t we?” he stammered.

            “Yeah, isn’t it great?” Ron replied, grinning.

            It was then that Loser realized the swelling feeling was not one of dread, but of triumph. “Y-yeah!” he gasped, breathing in great lungfuls of air. “Yeah, we are.”

            “You should always break the rules on occasion,” Ron instructed Loser. “It’s fun as hell, and it’ll remind you that you’re your own man.”

            “I’m my own what?” Loser queried, not quite understanding what Ron was saying.

            “Your own man,” Ron repeated. “If anyone needs reminding of that fact, it’s you.” Still holding Loser’s hand, he turned to him and said, “You’re so… _scared_ every single moment of every single day. It’s time that was changed.”

            Loser trembled, suddenly aware of the chilly November air. “A-and how do you p-p-propose we do that? By breaking the rules?”

            “No,” Ron replied. “By going to St. Mungo’s.”

            If Loser was confused beforehand, he was doubly mind-fucked now. “St. Mungo’s?” he parroted, shaking his head to clear it. “I… I don’t understand.”

            “Keep a firm hold of my hand,” Ron said. “And keep still! I’m not all that great at pulling a Side-a-long.”

            “Side-a-long?” Very shortly afterwards Loser realized Ron was talking about Apparating, as they did just that. For half-a-second Loser felt as if he was being compressed between a cutting board and a meat tenderizer. Then they appeared, a little out of breath, right outside the store façade that hid St. Mungo’s Hospital from Muggle London.

            “So why are we doing this again?” Loser asked as they stepped through the glass of the display window and into the atrium of the hospital.

            “Going to St. Mungo’s, you mean?” Ron said. “Well, to cheer you up. You really need it. And I thought: The best way to cheer you up is the make you feel better about yourself. And the best way to do that is for you to respect yourself. And, well, since you’re commanding a role of a battle hero, you’ve gotta have a good sense of self-worth and healthy pride in order to pull it off properly. So _then_ I thought that I could help you attain that sense of self-worth and pride by helping you get into your role. Which got me to thinking about Olivier. He’s an army sergeant, so he’s seen lots of gruesome battlefield aftermath. And I was trying to think how best we could expose you to something like that, and I thought: St. Mungo’s! So we’re gonna tour the hospital in hopes of finding the goriest sights possible. And in the meantime, we can visit my great-aunt.”

            Over by the reception desk, a couple dozen yards away, a man pooped out his mouth. The gaseous noise that escaped his throat echoed in the lobby. Loser stood in uncomfortable silence, trying to digest what Ron had just said. And he couldn’t. “ _What?_ ” he said. “Y-you made no s-s-sense at all.”

            “Let’s keep it simple, then,” Ron replied. “We’re gonna tour the hospital in hopes that I get some ideas for battle makeup. Meanwhile, you’ll get to see some of the carnage that you’ll have to pretend to witness in the play. How’s that sound?”

            “I-I don’t know,” Loser said, frowning. It was all very complicated, and nobody had ever expected him to think for himself before. His mum certainly hadn’t.

            “And one other thing, Los—ah fuck it, what’s your first name? I forgot, and I can’t go around calling you Loser all the time.”

            “My f-first name? C-clifford.”

            “C-clifford?” Ron said. “Or just Clifford?”

            “Just Clifford.”

            “Okay, Clifford, one more thing: We’ve gotta get rid of your stutter.” He strolled quickly towards the first ward in sight, a large room on the Ground Floor (Artifact Accidents) with a good dozen beds inside, all filled with patients who had suffered from an accident involving some magical object or other.

            “Why?” Loser asked.

            “Because you’ll sound like a bloody fool, stammering onstage,” Ron replied. He poked his head through the door and assessed the situation of the room. There were nine patients and two Healers, all rather busy, but not _very_ busy. None of their injuries looked very serious; the worst Loser could see was a man with a shard of cauldron filling his right eye. “Hmm, not enough carnage in here,” Ron said dispassionately. “Let’s go further in.”

            “No, I mean w-why have you suddenly decided to help me?” Loser asked, his voice quavering.

            “Because you need it,” Ron said. They reached a ward labeled _Serious Gaming Accidents_. “Ah, here’s a nice little corner to exploit.”

            “B-but why not wait f-for someone else t-t-to fix me proper?” Loser asked, following Ron into the room. This ward only had four beds, two of which were occupied. At one bed a young female Healer tended to a little boy whose innards were clinging to a broomstick that went all the way through his stomach and out his back. He was staring, wide-eyed, as the Healer gently scooped the guts back through the splintered hole in his ribs. The liver got stuck on a splinter, and both the boy and the Healer gasped as she tried to work it gently off the broomstick. On the other bed sat a man who had three Fanged Frisbees clawing at the side of his tattered face. The man let out hoarse moans as he grasped feebly at the blood-bespattered Frisbees and his bone-baring bite wounds.

            “Because everyone else is sitting on their fat asses instead of getting up and helping you,” Ron said. “So I thought: _someone_ needs to intervene… why not me?” He leaned over the Frisbee man and waved. “Hey, there. How’re you doing?”

            “Rrrgh!” came the reply. “I can’t (rrrgh!) get these (rrrrrgh!) things the fuck off (rrrrghh!!) Ah, FUCK IT! GET THE FUCK OVER HERE, YOU LAZY-ARSE HEALER!”

            “SHUT UP, MR. SHADDYPACK!” the Healer retorted, clearly agitated as she used her wand to keep the broom from shifting about inside the boy’s stomach. “THIS BOY IS ABOUT TO DIE, AND IF YOU DON’T SHUT THE FUCK UP, HE WILL! THOSE FRISBEES WON’T KILL YOU!” She caught sight of the two intruders. Loser shrunk away from her, but Ron grinned and waved. “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped at them.

            “Sorry, wrong ward,” Ron replied easily. “Bye, guys! Sorry, Frisbee man, can’t help.” And he lilted gently out of the room. Loser scampered out ahead of him. As they went, they heard the little boy gasping through what sounded like a mouthful of blood: “I feel… so _cold_ …”

            Loser goggled at Ron as they left the ward. He didn’t quite know whether a shriek or a wave of vomit would proceed out his gaping gob. Thankfully, he managed to quell both, and, his voice shaking as much as his limbs, he managed to gasp: “Wh-wh-wh-what… wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-why d-d-d-d-d-d-did we h-have-h-have-h-have—?”

            Ron cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Okay, stop it. You’re stuttering again.”

            Loser tossed his head about hopelessly and swiped at the corners of his eyes, which were building up a ready wave of tears. “I c-c-c-c-can’t h-h-h-help it!” he moaned. “R-r-really, all th-th-that blood and st-stuff—”

            Once again Ron cut him off. “Ssh. I’m gonna tell you how to stop this, but first you need to keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to hear another stutter out of you the entire day.”

            They began walking again. “See, your self-esteem is beneath the ground, it’s so low,” Ron said. “You have no idea what to say and when to say it, am I right?”

            Loser didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

            “Well, you need to think about what you say before you say it. If you know exactly what to say before you say it, you shouldn’t stutter.”

            “But how—?” Loser asked, then shut up when he sensed a stutter forming on his tongue. They had reached another ward, this one labeled _Serious Cauldron Accidents: Explosions_.

            “You must speak in rhyme for the rest of the day,” Ron said. “And use the same meter Dumbledore used to write the play: iambic pentameter, I believe Hermione called it. You know, ten syllables a line, with an unstressed-stressed meter.”

            “Wh—” Loser mouthed wordlessly at him, then shrugged his shoulders in a nonverbal manner to communicate that he had no heck of an idea what Ron was talking about.

            “Here’s an example,” Ron said:

 

“That man back there has Frisbees on his face.

I’m sure as heck glad I’m not in his place.”

 

            He grinned at Loser. “See what I’m talking about? 10 syllables to a line. And you place an emphasis on every other syllable. Like this: _‘That MAN back THERE has FRISbess ON his FACE./ I’m SURE as HECK glad I’M not IN his PLACE.’_ Easy as pie.”

            “Let me try—” Loser began, but Ron cut him off sharply.

            “That wasn’t a rhyme in iambic pentameter! Every time you speak in prose, I’m going to cast a stinging hex on you.” He pulled out his wand for emphasis, and Loser flinched.

            They entered the ward. Loser screwed up his face as he tried to think up a rhyme. Meanwhile, Ron surveyed the half-dozen beds, each filled with a patient who had been victimized in some way or other by a serious cauldron explosion. An old man had no skin on his face—only muscles that twitched nervously as they lay exposed to the hospital air. A Healer was operating on a girl whose hand had melted off. One man had greenish skin on an arm that looked suspiciously devoid of bones; he was sipping bitterly at a goblet full of Skelegro.

            Loser tugged on Ron’s sleeve and said:

 

“Let’s see, then, Ronald, if this is the way:

Unstressed, then stressed, ten syllables, and hey…!”

 

            Ron grinned. “It’s a start,” he said. “Hey, look at that old chick, she has no boobs.” He pointed to another patient, whose entire chest was a mass of congealed tissue and blood still fizzing in a bluish acid. A Healer stood over her, frantically casting spells on her still form. On the bed next to her a bony, young man peeled back the bandage that covered his entire forearm in order to take a peek at a pus-filled hole that bubbled all the way through the wrist. The last bed was a horrid mess: Three Healers were stringing up a bunch of organs loosely connected by a greenish mucus that oozed in strings between the pumping guts. They were all joined, in a lazy, sprawling sort of way, to a beet-red head that lay on the pillow, screaming in pure pain. The limbs were arranged in odd angles in and around the guts, all of them kicking wildly.

            “Hold down his legs!” the oldest Healer called, and a virile Healer, with muscles bulging even beneath his loose hospital scrubs, clamped his fists firmly around two errant limbs, one of which was somewhere near the face.

            “I got his arms,” said the third Healer, a blond-haired girl who looked barely out of Hogwarts. And indeed she did: She grabbed them by the wrists and tugged them gently away from the glob of organs.

            “Ah, take the limbs away for now,” the old Healer said. “They’ll just get in the way. We’ll reattach them later.”

            The two younger Healers pulled the limbs entirely away from the mass of guts. The strings of mucus clung stubbornly to arms and legs, but the Healers stolidly dumped them into a large bucket by the side of the bed and then snapped the mucus with their wands. In the bucket, the limbs still moved, filling the room with a loud _clang!_

 

“Oh gross, Ron, why in heck are we in here?

Is there a reason? Will you make it clear?”     

 

            Loser said this as he gazed, revolted, at the pile of guts. The small intestines curled neatly around the man’s penis, which was, inexplicably, experiencing a fierce erection. Ron fought the urge to both gag and giggle. “Wow, that’s so sick!” he said, his eyebrows jutting into his hairline. “I hope those Healers know what they’re doing.”

            Loser stared at Ron, appalled, but it took him a good minute before he could say, disbelieving:

 

“How can you find this funny in the least?

Are you a heartless, wretched, evil beast?”

 

            “What?” Ron said. “Oh… I forgot, you gotta have a few minutes to think up these things. And to answer you: _No_ , I’m not a heartless wretch. It’s just a natural reaction I have: When I laugh, it doesn’t mean I find it funny. Sometimes I laugh when I see something I can hardly believe is real—like an erection in the middle of a pile of guts! Haha, I’ve gotta tell Harry that one when we get back.”

            Shortly afterwards the ward started to smell really bad. When the mucus-slimed penis ejaculated into its owner’s shrieking face, Ron and Loser decided they had seen everything worth seeing and went off in search of another ward.

            “How about the next floor?” Loser said. Ron gave him a stinging hex, and Loser replied:

 

“Ow…! OW, ow, OW, ow, Ow, ow, Ow, ow, OW!

Wow, WOW, Wow, WOW, Wow, WOW, Wow, WOW, Wow, WOW!”

 

            Ron grinned. “Nice save, turning that ow into a rhyme. Not a good one, but it counts.” And they went to the next floor.

            As they proceeded from Floor One (Creature-Induced Injuries) to Floor Two (Magical Bugs) to Floor Three (Potion and Plant Poisoning), Loser gradually fell into the routine of speaking in rhyming iambic pentameter while viewing the twisted and bloody bodies. As they reached Floor Four (Spell Damage), Loser began to realize two things.

            First of all, this hospital tour wasn’t as traumatizing as he thought it’d be. There was lots of guts and blood, but they hadn’t yet seen anyone die, except for that two-year-old girl on Floor One whose heart had been bitten out by a Chimera. But Ron claimed to have seen a lot worse during the war, and he pointed out that there actually was an advantage to seeing someone die. “I mean, now you can see the Thestrals that pull the school carriages, and you can even take a ride on one of them if you ever get the sudden urge. Every cloud has its silver lining.” Death or no death, Loser was pleased to discover that he could actually stomach this stuff. Ron trusted him to have a strong constitution for blood and guts, and it turned out that he did! Nobody had ever expected Loser to have a strong constitution in anything before, and the experience was quite a bolstering one.

            Second of all, Loser had stopped stuttering. To create a simple couplet still took fifty seconds on average (down from the full minute it had taken him on the Ground Floor), but because it took him that long, and because his rhyming and meter had to be exact, he didn’t say anything until he both knew what he wanted to say and was sure that it was important. It wasn’t like memorizing lines for the play, because here he only had to worry about two lines at a time before he discarded them. Ron, he decided, was a genius. But he hadn’t yet worked that into a couplet to tell him.

            “Let’s visit my great-aunt now,” Ron said. “She’ll be on Floor Six—they just built it, you know.”

 

“I know. It’s the museum that you speak of.

It’s just two flights of stairs, two floors above.”

 

            “Yeah, she’s part of one of the exhibits,” Ron said.

 

“Perhaps you mean a worker when you say

‘Part of,’ I guess you mean it in that way.”

 

            “Not quite,” Ron said.

            By the time Loser thought up another couplet to continue the question, they had reached the museum. It was one large room broken up by a couple dozen of exhibits, some in cubicles, some in corners, and some right out in the open. Ron found the exhibit he was looking for right off.

            “Horrific Household Accidents,” Ron said. The exhibit was filled with mutilated bodies, all preserved in clear magical cases for the viewers’ benefit. The victims’ deaths ranged from tame (such as an old man strangled by a magical strand of rope) to:

            “My Great-Aunt Muriel,” Ron said proudly, pointing his finger. Loser’s gaze followed along and landed upon the lady in question. She was a shell of a person, with the skin on her entire torso peeled back like an orange rind. Beneath it were her innards, or what was left of them. It was like looking at a moth-eaten garment, because huge chunks were missing from them, and in many places Loser could see clear out the back of the display case. The skin on her fingers was melted to the bone, and her face looked stomach-droppingly concave, as if some of the material beneath the skin had run down her throat and out the holes in her chest.

 

“Whoa, fuck! That’s really her, your aunt, right there?

She’s dead… Oh gosh, sorry, I shouldn’t swear.”

 

            With these words, Loser gaped at the remains of Great-Aunt Muriel, then back at Ron.

            “Yep,” Ron said. “That’s her. Mostly I’m curious to learn what exactly she swallowed that made her die.” He found a caption on the display case, written in shimmering blue letters on the glass. “ _‘Muriel Molly Prewett, 1890-1997. Swallowed an acid-flavored, gangrene-infested, condom which is meant as a Halloween treat for vampires, not wizards.’_ Okay, that’s pathetic. No wonder Mum wouldn’t give me the details… I probably would’ve burst out laughing.” He chuckled a little and turned towards Loser. “So… seen enough for today?”

            Loser nodded, grinning.

 

“Yeah, Weasley, that was really quite a treat.

Battle makeup, carnage… we won’t be beat!

A nice experience for our Founders Play,

A grand old time for this, a grand old day.”

 

            Ron grinned. “Hey, you got out four lines that time. Now let’s get out into London, and we’ll Apparate back to Hogsmeade for a butterbeer.”

            And so they began their trek back down to the atrium. All the way Loser set his brain to the task of finding the perfect words to say to Ron, words that would be meaningful but not too stupid. When they had crossed the atrium and finally reached the streets of London, Loser found the courage to speak. He touched Ron’s shoulder and said:

 

“Hey, Ron, I really can’t thank you enough.

Maybe it’s you who’ll whip me up to snuff.”

 

            Ron smiled softly shook his head. “No, Clifford. I can help, but in the end, it has to be you who brings out the strength in your character.” He took his hand, and they Apparated away from the noisy London street.

 

**********

 

            Very shortly after Eloise broke her ankle, Dumbledore ended the practice in the mode of failure. Perhaps it was when Harry broke one of the props at the mere mention of his nude scene. Or perhaps it was when Hermione whacked Goyle across the face when he tried to read _Tropic of Cancer_ over her shoulder. Or perhaps—just perhaps!—it was when Dumbledore went back to the makeup room to see how Draco and Neville were getting along, only to discover that they had spent the last hour glaring in opposite directions, their lines unspoken and unpracticed.

            “The truth…” Dumbledore said as he gathered the cast and crew for a final word. “It is a beautiful—and terrible—thing. Always use it, but use it with caution. And so I must cautiously tell every one of you that, frankly… you were pathetic today. Perhaps once we have our costumes—” here, he stared severely at Parvati and Lavender, who glared even more severely in return— “we may then be able to delve into our roles. And yet, the depth of acting lies also with your own skills. I chose each and every one of you for a reason, and I _insist_ you follow through with this.” After glaring around the room for a bit, he rearranged his features into a more grandfatherly expression. “Any questions, my sweetie-pies?”

            “Yeah,” Draco said, thrusting his hand rudely in the air. “Can we go now?”

            Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but all fifty students (or forty-seven, since Ron, Loser, and Eloise were all absent) took it as a yes before a word left his lips. In fifty-two seconds flat, the entire Great Hall was empty, except for the doddering old headmaster. He stared at the open double doors for a long minute before he shrugged his shoulders and, with a wave of his wand, returned the hall to normal.

 

**********

 

            Ron had gotten into a habit that Harry found unbearable: Each night, before and after his shower, the redhead had taken to wandering their dormitory in the buff. He would traipse over to the window and stretch his limbs for the space of about fifteen seconds. Then he’d amble comfortably over to the bathroom to begin his shower. After the shower, he’d come out again and wander around the dormitory naked “until my pubes dry off,” he explained, which was normally about five minutes.

            It was rather a shock, because Ron had never before taken to walking naked around the dormitory. Not that Harry minded seeing Ron’s naked body—the scar-headed Gryffindor was quite comfortable with his heterosexuality, and he wasn’t afraid that the sight of his best friend’s penis would change it. But still, Dean and Seamus had taken to letting out catcalls and obscene jokes every time Ron dropped trou, perhaps because they themselves _were_ uncomfortable with their heterosexuality and felt that they needed to alleviate the situation a little. Whatever their motives, it didn’t make the jokes any less tiresome.

            But what annoyed Harry the most was this: Every single time he saw Ron naked, he was inevitably reminded of his own impending nude performance onstage. Each time he saw the night breeze tickle the vivid red hairs on Ron’s groin, he couldn’t help but imagine the couple hundred eyes that would be staring at the same hairs on his own body. Each time the weight of Ron’s ample package caused it to sway, pendulum-like, from one thigh to the other, Harry was acutely reminded of the fact that, in a month or two, his own schlong would dance that same lazy dance across the front of his legs, out in the open for everyone to see.

            What’s worse, Ron seemed to have picked up on this train of thought. Whenever he caught Harry whipping his gaze away from the sight of his nudity, he’d say loudly and gleefully, “Just imagine, Harry, in two months’ time, you’ll have done this in front of every single rabid girl in this entire school.” Or, “How long is that nude scene going to be? Two minutes, at least?” Or, “Do you plan on shaving your chest or letting the hairs grow out?” Or, when he was feeling kind-hearted, “At least Luna will be up there with you.”

            Except reminding Harry of Luna wasn’t so kind-hearted after all. Harry kept on having dreams of Luna and Ginny cat-fighting, except Luna was always calm, and she always won over the pint-sized Weaslette. Then she’d smile serenely at Harry, lift up the hem of her blouse, and…

            That’s where the dream normally ended, right at the moment when Harry would awake with a start. Not that the events happened exactly like that: It was more Variations on a Dream, if you would. Sometimes Luna was covered in whipped cream, and sometimes Ginny was wearing a house-elf pillowcase, and sometimes Dumbledore was committing self-flagellation as he watched from the sidelines. But it always featured a very excited Harry, who tried to go back to sleep after waking up, but was too well acquainted with the term “blue balls” until he heaved himself out of bed and relieved himself in the dormitory bathroom.

            On Thursday night, Hermione strode into the room right as Ron meandered out of the showers. Harry waited for a huge blow-up involving her shocked squeals and his mortified shriek, but it never came. Ron said easily, “Hiya, Hermione.” And she said, “Hey there.”

            “Anything the matter?” Ron asked her, crossing over to her until they were an arm’s length apart. Harry watched the conversation, agitated, from a distance. “You seem a little upset.”

            Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. “Ugh, I just had to get away from Lavender and Parvati. They’re running back and forth between the dormitory and the Common Room, trying to get their costume materials and plans all straightened out. I’ve been trying to study all evening, but they’re so distracting—it’s driven me off my train of thought!”

            “How many have they finished by now?” Ron asked, stretching his arms a little to allow the hair on his underarms a little more breathing room. Hermione didn’t bat an eyelid.

            “Twenty,” she said. “They have until tomorrow afternoon to complete the last one hundred and five.”

            Harry couldn’t stand it any longer. “Ron, put some clothes on!” he yelled, quite red in the face. “There’s a girl in the room, for heaven’s sake!”

            “Don’t be silly, Harry,” Hermione replied primly, “I already know what Ron’s penis looks like.”

            Harry went even redder as he stumbled backwards into his bed. “But… but…” he blubbered, “I thought you said you never… did it.”

            “Had sex, you mean?” Ron said. “Nah, but we had a private peep show or two before we called it off.”

            Harry snatched up his pillow and rammed it against his ears. “But… But Hermione, you wouldn’t prance around starkers if Ron walked into your dormitory!” he cried.

            “But I would,” Hermione said, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “He knows what my privates look like, too, you know.”

            “THIS ISN’T FUNNY!” Harry wailed fretfully. “Why does everyone remind me of the torture that bloody Dumbledore bat is putting me through?”

            Hermione raised her eyebrows at him and shrugged. “It’s only nudity, Harry. It’s not like you’ll be having intercourse with Luna in public. Now be quiet. I was trying to complain to Ron about my roommates.”

            Leaving Harry behind, Ron took Hermione’s hand and headed for the dormitory door. Harry dove over to Ron’s bed and flung his bathrobe after him, yelling, “There’s something called propriety, you know! Exercise a little, _please_!”

            “Did you try to help them any?” Ron asked Hermione as he slipped on his bathrobe and secured it just tightly enough to hide his naughty bits.

            “Of course,” Hermione said forlornly as they headed for the spiral staircase. “I tried to help them all week—I even showed them my fanciest knitting charms!—but they just kept snapping at me.”

            They ambled down the stairs. “Let me speak to them,” Ron offered. “I think I know just the thing to fix their problems.”

            “Do you really?” Hermione said skeptically. “I’ve been trying all week to get them to shut their moaning holes, but the more I think about it, the more the answer evades me.”

            They were in the Common Room now. Ron turned to Hermione and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, you need to go work on that Arithmancy project of yours.”

            Hermione whimpered a little as her shoulder slumped beneath Ron’s steadying palm. “I’m never going to finish it, Ron!” she moaned. “I haven’t even gotten through the first scroll. I’m stuck with this one particularly difficult spell, and I can’t find time to ask Professor Vector for help because of that stupid play! And then Parvati and Lavender are whining _constantly_ , so what little concentration I can grasp is blown totally out the window.”

            “Ssshh, now,” Ron said softly, giving her a gentle hug. “You’re going to ace that project, I can feel it. It’s hard now, but it’ll come through, just like the hard stuff always does.” She sniffled a few times into his shoulder, and he gave her a few pats on the back.

            “You know, Ron,” Hermione said, her voice still wavering, “you’re a lot cooler now that you’re not trying to act so macho.”

            Ron grinned. “Don’t I know it. Now, I can’t help you with Arithmancy, but I have just the thing to get Parvati and Lavender to stop moaning.”

            “What could that possibly be?” Hermione huffed. “The only way you could get them to shut up is if they found a way to finish those costumes by 3:00 tomorrow afternoon, and there’s no way on Earth that that’s going to happen.”

            “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Ron said. “Now run off and talk to Neville; the less people speaking to Lav and Parv, the better. They’re as volatile as a deck of Exploding Snap.”

            So Hermione went off to talk to Neville by the fireplace. Having successfully diverted his friend, Ron strolled up to Lavender and Parvati, who were hidden behind a labyrinth of cloth, paper, and sewing machines that covered no less than seven tables. That took up enough of the Common Room on its own, but then there was the five-foot radius that everyone else had made around the pile, afraid of running into one of the irate seamstresses.

            “Hey, Lavender, Parvati,” Ron said, peeking around the piles in search of the two girls.

            “Go the hell away!” That was Parvati. Her head poked up from behind a rickety sewing machine right in front of Ron’s eyes. Her hair was abnormally tousled, and her eyes had large circles under them. Lavender appeared a second later, her countenance in a similar mess, and her expression clearly promising eternal damnation to the person who had dared invade their workspace. They both wore hideous scowls.

            “Hey, I’ve come up with an idea,” Ron said, purposefully cheerful.

            “Stop fucking joking and leave us be!” Parvati snapped. “We’re about to give up, anyway, Dumbledore and the play be damned. And pull your bathrobe together, we don’t want to see your pubes.”

            Ron purposefully puffed his chest a little, so that the bathrobe drew out just enough to allow them a flashing glimpse of his penis. Then he pulled the garment together, smiling wryly as they slammed their foreheads into their fists in disgust. “I have just two words for you,” he said. “Two words that will solve all your problems.”

            “I don’t believe you,” Lavender said immediately, blinking her puffy eyes.

            “Shut up, please, and listen,” Ron said politely. “I’m trying to help.”

            “Then bloody tell us already!” Parvati yelped crossly. “We have a hundred and fucking five costumes to make by the next cunting practice, and it’s absolute raping hell!”

            “ _Language_ , Parvati!” Ron tutted sardonically. “Curb your tongue, or I won’t tell you.”

            Parvati pulled back her sleeve and made a fist, accompanied by a face monstrous enough to send even Voldemort hiding behind his mummy’s skirts. Ron took the hint and got to the point.

            “Two words, then. Here they are—”


	10. In Which a Fight Escalates

_The firmest hand is that of loving care,_

_The kind that, unconditioned, gives its best_

_Unto the love it loves. The truest pair_

_Finds loyalty the firmest proper test._

_Like apples paired with apples, crimson bright,_

_Two lovers gloriously bond in one condition:_

_That only to themselves, in sensual flight,_

_Do faithfully give carnal recognition._

_The alternative is neither bond nor glory,_

_But bondage of the most indomitable power,_

_Both needed and, in figurative heartbreak, gory,_

_The cauldron’s sweetest potion transformed sour._

_It may seem sweet, the love to you begotten,_

_But even the firmest apple may be rotten._

            Cloistered away in her tower, Sybil lifted the parchment with a shaking hand and surveyed her spidery opus. Channeling Edna St. Vincent Millay, she had tried her hand at a sonnet, and out popped this little ode. It wasn’t half-bad, even though Sybil had never been much of a poet (she much preferred Seeing), but when she reread it, she began to cry.

            There was no doubt in her mind what inspired her to write this. Every hour—no, every _minute_ —her brain guided her craftily towards Draco Malfoy, the man with whom she was truly in love. Whenever her day was getting too tough to bear—whenever the students had become particularly boisterous, whenever the curriculum had become too complex, whenever she curled in bed at night feeling much too lonely—she only had to think of Draco to feel better.

            But at the same time, she felt unspeakably sad. Draco was not truly hers. He belonged to that Pansy brat, even though he claimed he never slept with her and that the only person on his mind was his favorite Divination professor in the entire wizarding world. It was Pansy who held his arm in public, it was Pansy who could kiss him in front of the entire school, and it was Pansy who got to go home on holidays and visit his parents.

            Why couldn’t it be her in Pansy’s position? If Draco loved her so much, why couldn’t she, Professor Sybil Trelawney, stroll down the halls wrapped around Draco’s muscled form? Why couldn’t she casually walk by him in the courtyard and drop a kiss on his cheek before fluttering off to class? Why couldn’t she spend the upcoming Christmas at the Malfoy Manor getting to know his parents better? Why did society deem her too “old” for Draco—why did society have to be so _crazy?_ There was nothing gross about her love for a student, nothing at all gross about her sagging, wrinkled flesh against his chiseled curves, nothing in the world gross about her graying mound enmeshing with his blond pubis. Her wrinkles were just wrinkles, his youth just youth, the gray just gray, and the blond just blond… what truly counted was the endless love they felt for one another. There was nothing gross about that—

            Was there?

            Ah, it took her entire will, some days, to keep from leaping up from her breakfast in the Great Hall, standing on the table, and yelling out to the entire hall: “I LOVE DRACO MALFOY! I WANT TO MARRY HIM AND BELONG TO HIM UNTIL I DIE!” About the only thing that held her back was the fact that she desperately needed to keep her job, and a student-teacher relationship wouldn’t go over well with the Board of Governors. So she kept quiet and took what love she could get.

            It wasn’t enough. She wanted more.

            It was unbearable to think about. To take her mind off her troubles, Sybil Trelawney lit all her incensed candles—another twenty had arrived by owl order today, bringing the total close to one hundred—and sniffed the fumes until she became sufficiently light-headed to forget her worries.

 

**********

 

            “House-elves.”

            “House-elves?” Lavender and Parvati repeated in unison, gaping at the bath-robed redhead.

            “Yeah, I know, it’s only one word if you don’t believe the dash sufficiently separates it, but I decided it counted as two words.”

            “But… _house-elves?_ ” Lavender said. “Ron, how the heck did you come up with a crazy idea like that?”

            Ron shrugged and grinned at them. “You know me: Crazy ol’ Ron. Just clap your hands and ask for Dobby—he’s a house-elf, by the way—and he should come directly.” The two girls raised their hands skeptically, ready to clap, but Ron held up his hand to stop them. “Just… wait until Hermione’s out of the room, or she’ll throw a fuss about it. You know,” he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “ _Spew._ ”

            Lavender and Parvati exchanged wry glances—they remembered S.P.E.W. all too well from their Fourth Year. “She’s still going on about that?” Parvati asked, making sure to keep her voice down.

            “Yeah,” Ron said. “It’s one of those quirks that makes her so interesting. Doesn’t mean it’s any less annoying, but there you go.” He gave them a wink, and then ambled back to his dormitory.

            “You know,” Lavender said pensively, watching the redhead retreat to his dormitory, “Ron’s been acting a lot differently lately. Better different, if you know what I mean.”

            “Yeah,” Parvati agreed, “but I’m not thanking him unless the costumes are done on time.” They sank back into their chairs and did no work. Instead, they waited for Hermione to go before they turned nervously to face each other.

            “Should we try it?” Lavender said.

            “Don’t get your hopes up,” Parvati replied, “but go ahead.”

            So Lavender clapped her hands and said, “Dobby!” It was a weak clap, and her voice was barely above a whisper, but it worked. A second later, a large-eared, over-eager house-elf appeared with an accompanying _CRACK!_

            “Did you call me, miss?” the house-elf asked, the pile of knitted hats on his head wobbling furiously. Lavender and Parvati took a moment to digest the rest of his strange appearance. In addition to the eight or nine hats on his head (it was hard to count them, because Hermione’ knitting was so lumpy), Dobby also wore a pinstriped sports jacket over a Hawaiian flower-printed shirt, a kilt that fell all the way to his ankles, two mismatched socks, and a strange combination of footwear made up of an orange flip flop on one foot and a shiny black stiletto high-heel on the other. Lavender opened her mouth to say something about this fashion disaster, but then she realized she couldn’t sufficiently put her violent distaste in words.

            Dobby took stock of his surroundings; his face lit up when he realized he was in Gryffindor Tower. “You is being Gryffindors!” he squealed excitedly. “Is you also being friends of the great Harry Potter?”

            “Uh, yeah,” Parvati said automatically. “Yeah, we know him, sort of… he’s in class with us. But it was his friend Ron who told us to call you.”

            This only made Dobby happier. Bouncing excitedly on his feet, which was quite an accomplishment in the two-inch stiletto, he said breathlessly, “Oh, but Wheezy is being the one is giving me socks!” Here, he pointed at the foot inside the flip-flop, which was covered in a maroon sock. “If you is friends of Harry Potter and his Wheezy, I is doing anything you ask.”

            “Okay then,” Lavender said, raising her eyebrows at Parvati. This was one strange house-elf Ron had sent them. “We need to make one hundred and five costumes by 3:00 tomorrow afternoon. We have the sketches, the measurements, and the material. We just need the manual labor.”

            “But nothing is being simpler!” Dobby said cheerily. “Hogwarts is having two hundred house-elves in the whole castle—I is thinking we can be sparing at least fifty. Take Dobby’s hand, friends of Harry and Wheezy, and we is going to The Kitchens to get some help.”

            So Lavender and Parvati each took a hand, and with a loud _CRACK!_ they disappeared and reappeared in Hogwarts’ enormous kitchens. Even at this time of night there were dozens of house-elves still up cleaning the counters, putting away dishes, slicing up a fruit salad for tomorrow’s breakfast, sweeping the floor, levitating huge packages of meat into the refrigerators at the far end of the room, stoking the fireplace to ward off the night chill, and so on and so forth.

            “Wow, so this is what The Kitchens are like,” Lavender murmured, rather interested in the routine proceedings around her. “Dobby, these house-elves seem pretty busy,” she told the house-elf. “Are you sure they can be spared?”

            “If they is proper house-elves, they should be having time to spare for needy Harry friends,” Dobby said defiantly.

            At that moment, two house-elves whizzed up to Lavender and Parvati bearing large trays covered in sweets and appetizers, beckoning silently for the two Gryffindor girls to help themselves. Parvati took a fistful of chocolate liqueurs, and Lavender treated herself to three lamb kebobs.

            As the girls ate ravenously in order to build up their flagging energy, Dobby clapped his hands and beckoned the house-elves to gather around him. About twenty of them were able to leave their jobs, and they formed a curious ring around the free elf and the two witches. “These two ladies is being friends of the revered Harry Potter and his Wheezy, and they is desperate for the help of us,” Dobby told the little crowd.

            One old house-elf in a freshly-pressed tea cozy raised a wrinkled hand and said in a slow, gravelly squeak, “If they is friends of the Potta and the Wheeze, then is that also to mean they is friends of the Grange Lady?”

            Still nervous about being surrounded by a bunch of strange creatures (with whom they had little experience in dealing) in a new place, Parvati and Lavender stammered a bit as they answered, “Uh, yeah… we know Hermione Granger.” “Yeah… she, uh, shares our dormitory.”

            Inexplicably, the house-elves shrank back as if the two girls were infected with dragon pox, murmuring worriedly to one another. This only made Parvati and Lavender feel even more nervous. Trying to placate the jittery elves, Lavender said quickly, “Please, we don’t mean you any harm, do we, Dobby?”  
            “What is it you want?” the old elf asked, frowning at the pair of them.

            “Just…” Lavender ventured, “are any of you good with… clothes?”

            Immediately Lavender realized this was the wrong thing to say, though she didn’t know why. The house-elves gasped in shock and retreated to the fireplace, acting as if Lavender had purposely tried to offend them. At a loss for what to do, the Gryffindor girl turned to Dobby and said, “What the heck is wrong with them? All I asked was for help in clothes, and they go all weird on me.”

            “Please to let Dobby deal with the silly house-elves,” Dobby said, rolling his eyes. “They is thinking you is like Harry’s Hermy.” He turned to the house-elves and yelled, “Please, I is wanting us to be calm! These two misses is only wanting help with the making of costumes for Dumblydore’s play. They is not wanting to insult you with the giving of clothes like the Grangey Lady. Be reasonable and help!”

            But the damage had been done. Despite the coaxing of Dobby, then of Lavender and Parvati, only eight house-elves agreed to accompany them back to the Gryffindor Common Room. Dobby even disappeared for an hour to search around the castle for more elves, but came back with a mere three.

            “Anything else we can get the friends of Harry while we is in The Kitchens?” Dobby said glumly after gathering all the house-elves that were willing to help them.

            “Alcohol,” Parvati said immediately. “The strongest Firewhiskey you have.”

            Dobby frowned and flapped his ears a little. “But you is being students,” he said doubtfully. “The Whiskey of Fire is being possible to make you drunker than the spirits in Butterbeer.”

            “We hold our spirits better than house-elves,” Parvati insisted. “And we’re of age. _And_ this week has been fucking hell. So Firewhiskey, _please_.”

            Dobby relented. In five minutes, the two seamstresses were back in the Gryffindor Common Room with a six-pack case of Firewhiskey, a pile of sweets to keep them awake, and a dozen elves to help them with the costumes. The two girls sagged into armchairs by the fire, swigged their Firewhiskey, and waited for the house-elves to get to work.

            “Uh…” this came from Dobby, who had wandered over to the two girls and was now tugging at their sleeves. “Misses… friends of Harry… we is not being trained in clothing-making, only in cleaning the castle and cooking and doing laundry.”

            Swearing a little, Parvati and Lavender had to heave themselves out of the armchairs in order to spend the next hour teaching the house-elves how to use the sewing machines, then how to make the costumes by looking at the measurements and the sketches. By the time the house-elves actually got started, it was 1:00 in the morning.

            The whole costume-making deal, Parvati and Lavender reflected, was the worst school project they ever had to do. It was one of those things that seemed like it wouldn’t take too long, but in reality swallowed vast ages of their lives, causing them many long, sleepless nights. Whenever things seemed to fall into a pattern, something else came along to grind the whole production to a halt. Even with the house-elves, things didn’t get much better. Lavender admitted to Parvati that she had anticipated catching a bit of shut-eye as the creatures did everything for them, but such was not the case. The house-elves constantly had to have the sketches interpreted for them, for fear of ruining the design, allowing no sleep for the two costume makers.

            “It’s not… it’s not like I’m not grateful for the house-elves,” Parvati told Lavender in an undertone as she drank her fifth bottle of Firewhiskey (they had to send Dobby back to The Kitchens for more). “But if we had, uh…” she nearly dropped off, but managed just in time to spill a little of the burning whiskey down her throat. Coughing a little, she shook her head and continued, “If we had given up, we’d be asleep right now.”

            “Fuckin’ don’t tell me,” Lavender managed to slur through her sleep-bleared consciousness. She had only taken two bottles of the whiskey, but was instead inhaling platefuls of chocolate in hopes that the sugar would buoy her energy long enough to get her through this ordeal.

            “Misses!” one young house-elf called, “What is the word ‘crotch’ meaning?”

            Lavender heaved out a long, low sigh and pushed herself up from her chair with both arms. “Right now, death is the best thing for that insane headmaster of ours,” she muttered to Parvati before she stumbled over to help the house-elf.

 

**********

 

            At 6:15 on Friday morning, when Dobby was finishing the fortieth costume, Hermione was climbing out of the tub in the Prefects’ Bathroom. She wrapped a towel around her dripping torso and went to the mirror above the expansive, basin-like sink in order to observe herself.

            _Hmm, my hair actually looks pretty decent when it’s wet_ , Hermione thought as she primped in front of the cold glass. _I can’t go around with wet hair all day, though._ _If only it didn’t frizz out when it dried!_

            Hermione enjoyed waking up a little earlier than everyone else. That way, she got the Prefects’ Bathroom before the others, and she could take her time to dry her hair and put on her makeup. At about 6:45 a line started forming outside, at which point she had to start rushing herself.

            Pulling out her wand, Hermione cast a hair drying charm and began brushing her brown locks as the hot air blasted over her head. She tried different strokes of the brush every day, combined with different angles of the wand, but it never worked. By the time she was done, her hair was as monstrously furry as Aragog’s. Harry kept on assuring her she looked beautiful, but she doubted he said it out of anything more than a friendly consideration for her feelings.

            Sighing sadly, she canceled the charm and pulled out her makeup. She turned over to the bathtub and called, “You can come out, Myrtle!”

            A fifteen-year-old ghost floated, transparent, from the mouth of a skinny faucet and drifted to Hermione’s side. “How did you know I was there?” she asked glumly.

            “I heard your gurgles,” Hermione said calmly. “Were you watching me take my bath?”

            If a ghost could blush, then Moaning Myrtle did just that. Floating backwards a few inches, she said shyly, “Maybe… maybe not…”

            “It’s okay,” Hermione said as she applied her mascara. “I understand that some people are turned on by voyeurism. Just realize that not everyone is as understanding as me.”

            Moaning Myrtle burst into violent tears and fled up to the ceiling. “So you’re going to call me names, are you?” she wailed. “You’re going to say I’m the most perverted ghost you’ve ever met, and that I’m a sick sex freak!”

            “No, no, not at all!” Hermione insisted frantically, gazing upward at the ceiling with eyes that implored Moaning Myrtle to believe her. “No, I was just saying…”

            “Spare me your excuses!” Moaning Myrtle sniffed dramatically. She drifted lazily down to the tub, sniffling all the while.

            Hermione’s gaze followed the touchy ghost. With a sigh, she tried to think up some way to compliment Myrtle. “Uh… you know, Myrtle, I’ve always loved your hair. I wish mine were as smooth. How did you get it to stay like that?”

            Moaning Myrtle whipped her tearstained head out of her hands and glared at Hermione. “Did?” she squawked. “ _DID?_ How _DID_ I get it done? Thanks once again for reminding me that I’m DEAD!” And with another wail she disappeared up the faucet from whence she came, leaving an exasperated Gryffindor behind.

            “I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out how to fix my hideous hair!” Hermione moaned in a fit of hopelessness. She kicked at the tiled floor with her bare feet and let out a long sigh. She then applied the rest of her makeup, though she was acutely aware of the fact that beautifying the rest of her face would do no good when she had a hairdo like the abominable snowman’s.

 

**********

 

            The bell rang at 8:00 that morning, signaling the start of classes. Last-minute stragglers dodged through doors and into their desks, throwing open their bags and pulling out their books just as the teachers began roll call.

            However, up in the oppressive North Tower there were only four students present out of the normal six. Professor Trelawney revolved tipsily on her feet as she counted her students. She exuded a strong odor of cooking sherry. “One… two… three… four… five,” she slurred. “There’s only five-ah you.”

            Ernie raised his hand and said uncomfortably, “Actually, there’s only four of us. There’s me, Luna, Colin, and Los—er, Clifford.”

            “No, there’s five-ah,” Trelawney insisted, her voice becoming sing-songy. “’Cause there’s two-ah Losah. Losah-Losah, Double-Losah. Oh, my sweet Dracah!” She slumped into the nearest armchair and began sobbing.

            “Maybe Parvati and Lavender died,” Luna suggested helpfully. “I had a dream last night that Professor Snape sneaked into their dormitory, captured them, raped them, and then slowly dissolved them in acid. They were alive and in incredible pain all the way until the acid reached their hearts, which took a good few hours.”

            Trelawney started at Luna’s words, her eyes dilating in and out as they bugged from her head. “Oh, death!” she cried when Luna finished. “How glorious! Death, death, death! My dear, you are truly blessed with the Sight!” She flailed about in her armchair a bit before her head suddenly fell back and issued a series of slightly drunken snores.

            Loser turned nervously to Luna and said:

 

“Oh Luna, are you truly blessed with Sight?

Were L and P murdered and raped last night?”

 

            He was still talking in rhyme, mostly because Ron had never told him stop, though also partly because he didn’t want to speak normally for fear of stuttering again. He was now a master of thinking up couplets on the spot, so much so that it was almost like regular talking. Almost, that is, because people kept giving him funny stares over it.

            Luna, as always, was the exception to the rule. She acted as though Loser was talking as normally as everyone else (though in a Divination class it was hard to gauge anyone as “normal”), and answered him accordingly. “Of course I didn’t dream it, Cliffy,” she said sweetly. “But Trelawney thinks I did, and she’s going to give me an O for the day. You should try it sometime. In fact, try it when she wakes up.”

            Loser nodded his head so that he didn’t have to think up an entire couplet just to convey the word “Yes.” Luna laughed a tiny, lilting laugh and asked, “Why do you take Divination anyway, Cliffy?”

            Loser shrugged his shoulders glumly and replied:

 

“Because I suck in every other class,

And this one is the easiest to pass.”

 

            Luna stroked his shoulder comfortingly and said, “Now, now. You should come talk to my Heebripple sometime, and he’ll tell you just how smart you really are.” Loser was touched by her consideration, but all the same, he thought to himself that he might skip the visit with the supposed Heebripple.

            At that moment, Trelawney awoke with a snort. She sat up, her eyes blinking wildly, and she insisted: “I was awake, my dears! Just a spot of the Sight coming onto me. I saw Death again, with its scythe, and it walked around and touched everyone who was to die in the next month. And it touched some souls here at Hogwarts, I swear upon the grave of my first love, it did! Before this month is out, one of us in this very room will fall under Death’s swooping blow, leaving behind only memories, which is the chaff that sifts through the minds of our friends and family! _Be forewarned, the Sight is among us!_ ”

            Ernie exchanged a long glance with Colin. Luna grinned widely and made some purposefully inane comment like: “The Sight is indeed among us, professor, how right you are.” Professor Trelawney nodded spasmodically and returned the affirmation twice or thrice (“Yes indeed, the Sight is among us, the Sight, my dear! Yes, the Sight is _strong_ today!”) until she sounded like a broken record.

            Loser quietly raised his hand and spoke, his voice incredibly calm, though tinged for the first time in his life with an undercurrent of mischief:

 

“Professor, it was me that Death did pick,

It’s me his scythe shall cut down to the quick.

For Snape shall also murder my poor self

And rest my sad remains upon his shelf.

He’ll rape me hard inside the mouth and ass;

My death’s performance shall take hours to pass.

But Snape’s inflicted with a mind disorder,

For he won’t commit these evils in that order.”

 

            After this recitation the class forgot Lavender and Parvati’s absences, and Loser, for the first time in his life, got top marks for the day.

 

**********

 

            A young house-elf by the name of Clockles finished the 125th costume at 2:57 that afternoon. In the three minutes before the bell rang, the twelve house-elves and the two collapsing Gryffindor girls transported all the costumes to the Great Hall. They created a huge pile on the stage behind the curtain (which Dumbledore had just set up, although he was not currently in the room as he had stepped out for a moment to use the lavatory). Afterwards, the house-elves disappeared, leaving the girls to sag against one another as sleep assaulted their brains and demanded to control them.

            Right before they could go to sleep, however, Dumbledore swept back into the room. Seeing them on the stage next to their pile of clothes, he grinned widely and said, “Ah, all one hundred twenty-five costumes, just as I asked. Didn’t I tell you that it was possible? Now you can help me match each outfit to its performer, after which we’ll transport this whole pile to the appropriate dressing rooms.”

            It was too much. After slaving away for the past 36 hours without sleep (not to mention the other hundred hours in the past week), Lavender and Parvati couldn’t do any more. Lavender ignored the headmaster entirely, but Parvati dredged up her last vestiges of energy to raise her middle finger at the professor and say, “Fuck you, Dumbledore.” At which point she conked out with her head on a pile of whorehouse costumes.

 

~~~~~

 

            When everyone came into practice a few minutes later, they were astounded to discover that Lavender and Parvati had managed to complete all 125 costumes just as Dumbledore had requested. Everyone except for Ron, that is. With a knowing smile, he pulled the portfolio of sketches from under Parvati’s arm and found his own costumes. Then he went into boys’ dressing room to change into his fat suit and Act II outfit.

            The final scene of Act II involved a musical duet between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. So, while Ron and Neville went onstage to practice with Dumbledore, Luna volunteered herself and Harry to tag and arrange all the costumes in Lavender and Parvati’s stead.

            “I’m helping, too!” Ginny insisted ferociously when Dumbledore gave them the go ahead. She latched herself firmly to Harry’s arm as they ambled over to the pile of costumes. He went rigid beneath her touch.

            Luna riffled through the portfolio until she found a sketch of the costume nearest to her. It was a tube dress that looked short enough to be a tube shirt, and it trailed strings of gaudy beads from the hems. “Outfit for Whore #2, Act I, scene iv,” Luna read aloud. “Girls’ dressing room.” She magically tacked a label to the dress and carried it off to its destination.

            The costume sorting ran in this vein for about five minutes. Then Luna stirred things up a bit by pulling a blank sheet of paper from the portfolio and writing on it: “Outfit for Stable Boy, played by Harry Potter, Act IV, scene iii.” Then she showed it to Ginny. “Isn’t that funny?” she said lightly.

            Ginny snarled and grabbed a handful of Harry’s flesh in an attempt to pull him to her side. “Back the fuck away, Loony!” she snapped at her onetime friend, ignoring Harry’s pained squeals. “You think you’re special because you get to go onstage naked with him. Well, you’re not! You haven’t slept with him; I _have_.”

            “I’m sure you’ve slept with him,” Luna replied, her face the picture of perfect sweetness, “just not for the past month.”

            Harry had never truly understood the metaphor of the shadow passing over someone’s face, but as he watched his girlfriend he discovered its meaning. Ginny’s gaze smoldered angrily, and the depressions in her cheeks and eyes deepened as her jaw developed a rapidly pulsing tic. She let go of Harry as suddenly as she grabbed onto him, and she took a few quick strides until she was inches away from Luna’s half-tilted face.

            “The Heebripple smells sexual energy,” Luna whispered softly to the redhead. “And he says there’s none left between you and Harry.”

            For a second there was nothing. No accompanying grin from Luna. No build of tension in Ginny’s arms. No shifting from an extremely uncomfortable Harry. Then, without warning, Ginny’s fist snapped out of nowhere and slammed into Luna’s jaw.

 

~~~~~

 

            Right as Ron was changing in the boys’ dressing room, and right as Luna was asking Dumbledore for permission to sort out the currently unused costumes, Hermione was picking up her own costume, along with Goyle’s. “Here,” she said roughly when the thickset Slytherin wandered near the pile. “Take this, put it on.”

            “You found it for me?” Goyle asked, grinning amiably.

            “Only because you can’t find anything without a map and three analysts,” Hermione muttered under her breath before she strode off to the girls’ dressing room. “Stupid Goyle,” she added to herself. “Why Dumbledore cast him as the librarian, I have no idea.”

            Gregory Goyle’s grin faded. As he went to the dressing room to change into his costume, he wished once again that Draco didn’t make him act so bloody stupid all the time. What was wrong with being smart—what’s more, what was wrong with letting it show? Hermione did it, so why couldn’t he? Sure, people made fun of smart people, but they also made fun of dumb people. The operative difference was that people still went to the smart people for help but passed over the dumb people for being too stupid to do anything other than stand around. A smart wizard could do all sorts of things: invent new spells, capture criminals, write spellbooks, teach students, and change the world. A dumb wizard was pretty much limited to modeling, gang fighting, or becoming Minister of Magic. Why couldn’t Malfoy see that smart was better than stupid, then let his friend and faithful lackey adjust accordingly?

            Two minutes later, he and Hermione were in their costumes, waiting for Dumbledore to finish the musical number before he began rehearsing another scene with them, as he had promised at the end of last practice.

            For a few silent minutes Hermione stewed in her own frustration. She pulled unconsciously at a strand of her hair and tapped her foot against the ground. All the meanwhile, she shot sidelong glances at Goyle, who returned his own when she didn’t seem to be looking.

            Goyle couldn’t stand it—he had to know what she was thinking. So he said quietly, “Uh, Granger…?”

            She whirled around at the sound of his voice, unable to contain herself any longer. “All I’m saying is that you’d better say your lines properly! I’m way too busy as it is, and I don’t have time to pick up the slack for a stupid Malfoy flunky who can’t act!” She said this in one breath and glared sternly at him to accentuate her point.

            So that’s what was bothering her! But of course, he already knew that. Hermione thought that he, Goyle, was as stupid as Crabbe. Who didn’t, after all, other than Draco, Crabbe, and Pansy? “Look, Granger,” he began, “despite what you think—”

            At that moment, Malfoy whizzed up to him and elbowed him in the side. “Goyle! Get back here!” Of course. Draco was always there to keep him from proving his brainpower to anyone who didn’t already know about it. Sighing a long, loud sigh, Goyle plodded away from Hermione.

            “Don’t talk to her at all,” Draco told Gregory severely. “I know brains like that are a big temptation for you, but you better resist them, _especially_ since they belong to a Gryffindor brat who just happens to be best friends with bloody Potter.”

            But, as it turned out, Hermione was not done talking to them. Just as Draco finished hissing his instructions at Goyle, she ran up to both of them and continued dispelling her temper. “Malfoy, you better make sure he’s practicing his lines every night, or I’ll tell Dumbledore! I hate that I always have to clean up after other peoples’ incompetence!”

            “Stop blathering, you Gryffindor clown,” Malfoy sneered at her.

            “I’ll blather all I want, Malfoy!” she replied, much too excited to be calmed. “I’m sick and tired of working overtime on this play when I should be in Professor Vector’s room getting help on my Arithmancy project!”

 

~~~~~

 

            Loser went into the dressing room the same time as Ron. In five minutes, he managed to slip into his costume, which was a dashing affair most suited for an army commander. The tunic and trousers were a bold mix of red and black, topped with grieves and a breastplate made of a faux metal that looked and felt real, but was far lighter than real metal. This gave Loser the impression of actual armor while still allowing him a good deal of freedom for his more dramatic flourishes. He even had a helmet with a feathered top, but he only put it on when he wasn’t delivering one of his many lines. He also wore a belt equipped with a sword and sheath.

            When Loser had decked himself fully in his battle regalia, he realized something of utmost interest to himself: He now felt much more courageous than he had ever felt in his whole life. Dumbledore was right—the costumes _did_ help him get into his role, and his role was Olivier the battle hero, one of the bravest men in Wizarding literature.

 

“Thank Merlin for Patil and Brown, I say!

This costume wakes my nerves in bold display.”

 

            Loser uttered this out loud, his face filled with awe as he gazed at himself in the full-length mirror. Ron looked up from his own outfit, which he hadn’t yet managed to get over the bosom of his fatsuit.

            “You haven’t been speaking in rhyme for the past two days, have you?” Ron said in surprise. “Didn’t I say that an hour or two would be sufficient? I supposed I didn’t, did I?” Loser shook his head in agreement. “Well, speak normally now: I think you’re ready.”

            So, willing himself not to searching for a rhyme or a meter, Loser said, “What should I say?”

            “Say: ‘Clifford is the shit, and the rest of you motherfuckers better start running,’ ” Ron suggested.

            “ _Clifford is the shit_ ,” Loser said, “ _and the rest of you motherfuckers better start running._ Okay. What did that prove?”

            “Besides the fact you can actually swear now?” Ron said. “Just keep talking normally, and report back to me next practice.” He finally managed to get his costume in place, and so he walked out of the dressing room and into the makeup room to apply his makeup.

            “Hmm,” Loser said. “Just talk normally, he said? Okay, whatever.” He tested a few words on his tongue, just to see what would happen. “Loser. Clifford. Susan. Edmund. Fuck Edmund. Fuck him and let the spirit of Lord Voldemort go all Dark on his arse. I’m worth twelve of him!” He paused. The dressing room was now empty except for him. “Fuck.” He giggled. “Fuck.” He giggled again. What fun it was to try out these new swearwords on a tongue that no longer stumbled over them! “Cock. Pussy. Shit.”

            At that moment Harry burst through the door carrying some dress robes. Loser decided it was time to leave the room and actually get out onto the stage. Unsheathing his sword, he gave it a few practice swings, relishing the whistles that rode on the still air of the Great Hall.

            Quite on accident, Loser happened to pass within a foot of Susan, who was sitting on the steps at the side of the stage. He came to a halt and nearly said, _Hello, Susan_ , but stopped himself just in time to amend it to: “Hey, Susan.” His nerves were jangling, but his lips moved without stuttering.

            “Get lost, Loser,” came the reply.

            That was not the answer he wanted to hear. He stood there in a  moment’s hesitation, but didn’t yet allow himself to speak. _I mustn’t let myself stutter!_ Loser told himself sternly. And so he waited a few moments before taking a deep breath and replying, “Where’s your boyfriend? Edwin, was that his name?”

            “Edmund,” came the caustic reply. “Get it right, fuckwit.”

            Loser actually smiled. He had known Edmund’s name for the past year now—how could he not, when he thought about Susan every single day, and about the fact that Edmund was corrupting her against him? “Sorry,” he said easily after another few seconds of silence. “People like him just sort of slip the mind, you know?”

            “Do they, now?” Susan replied, peeved.

            “Yeah. Not like you, though,” Loser pressed on. “When I heard your name for the first time, I remembered it instantly. How could I not, when it matched such an amazing person?” His stomach was so filled with nerves that it hurt. But at the same time some cloud nine filled his chest and made it seem lighter than air. He had never managed to carry on a conversation with Susan that was more than a sentence (or stutter) long.

            With a suddenness that nearly sent Loser off the edge of the stage, Edmund appeared out of nowhere, bawling, “GET AWAY FROM MY GIRLFRIEND, YOU LOSER!” He whipped out his wand and cried, “ _Diffindo!_ ”

 

~~~~~

 

**_HUFF:_ ** _[singing]_

_…And when I think of Hogwarts,_

_I think of joy and love._

_A school will teach,_

_Our kids will reach,_

_Them searching each,_

_For knowledge from above._

_Our loyal hearts will bring us through_

_To peace and knowledge born anew_

_From all the good a man can do._

**_SLTYH:_ ** _[singing sadly]_

_These attributes shall bind us fast,_

_But how come peace can never—_

            At that moment three things happened at once. Ginny punched Luna in the jaw. Hermione began screaming at Malfoy. And Edmund’s _Diffindo_ grazed Loser’s shoulder, try as he might to dodge it. Immediately three fights began simultaneously throughout the Great Hall, causing quite a commotion.

            “You’re a crazy Mudblood!”

            “I’ll teach you to even _look_ at my boyfriend!”

            “ _Bludgeon maxima!_ Ha, you couldn’t dodge _that_ , Edmund!”

            “Ginny, what’d you do that for… Luna, why’re you—?”

            “Get away from him, filthy little Loser!”

            “Better a Mudblood than a Malfoy! _Infestae Gangrenus Arse!_ ”

            Ginny and Luna were involved in an epic catfight that involved a lot of fingernail clawing and hair pulling. Luna somehow managed to seem calm as she jabbed her wand into Ginny’s nose and cooed, “I get to be naked with Harry!” Ginny yowled in response and tried to bite Luna’s neck.

            Meanwhile, Malfoy was clutching at his bottom with a pained expression; Hermione’s curse had caused gangrene to infest his backside, and it let out the most terrific smell as it rotted on his frame. Hermione smiled a wry, vindictive smile.

            At the same time, Loser had managed to hit Edmund with a Bludgeoning Hex, a Leg-Breaking Hex, and a few punches, while Edmund hadn’t gotten in any more than the Cutting Curse he had fired off at the get go.

            Dumbledore giggled happily as he watched the three fights play out. Ron glared at him and said, “Well, aren’t you going to stop them? I think Ginny and Luna are about to kill each other.”

            “No, they need to get it out,” Dumbledore said happily. “The conflict must always reaching a battle pitch before a resolution can be reached.”

            “That’s bullshit,” Ron said, not bothering to curb his tongue. Dumbledore no longer seemed to take points off for swearing—the most he ever did was frown reprovingly, if he wasn’t actively encouraging it—so Ron didn’t see the point in restraining himself. He pulled out his wand and sent off three pink firecrackers in a row. They exploded with much energy and noise, causing all the fighting to grind to a halt.

            “Okay, now,” Ron yelled so that they could all hear him. “Be reasonable. Let’s not fight anymore, sound good?”

            “But she’s ogling my boyfriend!” Ginny shrieked.

            “And Malfoy’s antagonizing me!” Hermione cried.

            “And he _cursed_ my boyfriend!” Susan screeched.

            “Uh, okay,” Ron said. “That sucks and all, but fighting won’t solve it.” When the nine people involved the in the altercations glared at him, he turned to Dumbledore for support. “Back me up, old man. It’s your job, not mine.”

            So Dumbledore beckoned the three groups forward. None of them moved. “I have just the idea,” he said. “Just for today, we’re going to divide the practice into small groups, just to give us more focus. Miss Granger and Master Goyle, you two will go to the library to first discuss your characters and then rehearse your scenes. Master Potter, Miss Lovegood, go outside and do the same thing. And my faithful battle hero,” he inclined his head towards Loser, “will pair up with Xaxis’s unfaithful wife,” he also inclined his head towards Eloise, “and practice at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Master Malfoy, _you_ will go with Master Longbottom to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, where you both will go through the _entire_ play and rehearse your mutual scenes _properly_ , as you have been unable to do for the past two weeks.”

            Dumbledore continued dividing the cast and crew into small groups. Dean took his four set artists out to the grounds to paint landscapes. Ginny was declared Ron’s assistant in makeup, and they went into the makeup room to practice. The whores went to the Charms classroom to practice singing. And two house-elves (once again, suspiciously lacking any Hogwarts crest on their uniforms) transported Lavender and Parvati back to their dormitories, where they would sleep until the next afternoon.

            And as Dumbledore divided up his cast and crew, he afforded himself a gleeful grin. There was still so much wrong with all these students—so much to fix, and so much that seemed almost unfixable! But his meddling had always worked in the past, and with a little patience it would work again. Creating and casting this play had been the first step. This move was the second step.

            He now only had to sit back and see what this afternoon’s worth of meddling would bring.


	11. So Why Is Goyle So Smart?

            Hermione Granger and Gregory Goyle were the first to leave the Great Hall. The moment Dumbledore told them to go to the library, Hermione set off at a brisk pace, her copy of _The Quadrangle_ swinging fiercely in her clutched fist. Gregory followed at a run, his large frame making it difficult to keep in stride with the irate Gryffindor. He jogged past a number of students who had been spared from Dumbledore’s disastrous casting. They gave him and Hermione strange looks, no doubt wondering what the two cast members were doing outside the Great Hall, especially with Hermione looking so furious.

            In far too short a time, Gregory was out of breath. This he found frankly pathetic, as Hermione was merely walking. As the boy, shouldn’t he have the greater athletic stamina, especially when Hermione was a bookworm and not given to athletics herself? _I really need to lose some weight_ , Gregory told himself. _Maybe ten pounds before Christmas, then ten pounds after, since I’m going to gain it all back over the holidays._

To take his mind off the stitch in his side and the strain on his feet, Gregory focused his gaze on Hermione. With every step her voluminous hair flounced tremendously in one direction, then the other, matching first the right footfall, then the left, then the right again. It was quite a mesmerizing sight. Sure, her hair was still ugly and frizzy—nothing could hide that fact—but for the first time Gregory realized that its hugeness was actually a part of the girl attached to it. Hermione, he decided, needed a big hairdo to match her big personality. As for the ugliness aspect… well, her attitude towards him was pretty ugly right now, so he supposed that it was only appropriate that her hair should be the same.

            They reached the library. Hermione swept through the double doors in a very bad temper and ground to a dead stop, her body frigid as a corpse. Her head turned a slight fraction, as if it was enough to catch the gasping Goyle in her periphery vision. “Lose some weight, Goyle,” she shot at him.

            “Whoo!” Gregory huffed in reply. “H-how are you not out of breath, either?”

            “It doesn’t merely take Quidditch skill to stay in shape, you know,” Hermione said acerbically. “How else do you think Harry, Ron, and I killed your daddy and mummy and all their little friends, plus Voldemort too, then lived to tell the tale?”

            She meant the statement to sting, but Gregory was unmoved. He had not been all that sad when his parents died. They were stupid galoots, barely useful as sycophants for Voldemort, and they never understood why their son valued an education so highly, or why he had any ambition outside of serving the biggest bully on the playground. Their deaths had been quite a liberating experience, and he devoted his allotted mourning time to moving his possessions to Draco’s house, where he now spent the summers and the holidays. He enjoyed himself at Malfoy Manor, especially since Lucius was in jail and Narcissa was in charge of the place. She was the only person from the Death Eater days with some actual sense about her, and Gregory liked spending the evenings listening to her intelligent conversation. He hadn’t yet gotten the nerve to reply to her wisdom (partly because she was so intimidating, and partly because Draco didn’t wish it), but maybe this coming holiday he’d take the chance—if he was brave enough.

            But how could he spurt out this mouthful to Hermione? She didn’t want to hear his life story right now. So he replied with a simple: “I guess I didn’t think about that.”

            “No, you didn’t,” Hermione replied haughtily. She looked slightly disappointed that Goyle showed no signs of emotional injury, but she recovered speedily and said, “Now let’s get started on this play; I don’t want to waste any more time than I have to.”

            “ _Silencio!_ ” This sudden input came from Madam Pince, who brandished her wand in Hermione’s direction. The clever Gryffindor hadn’t been kidding about being in shape; she sidestepped the curse easily, and it flew harmlessly into the door. “This is a library!” the irritable librarian hissed, stating the obvious. “Now be quiet or leave!”

            So Hermione pulled Gregory further into the library—past the tables at which a dozen students studied, past the more popular shelves, and into a secluded alcove not far from the Restricted Section. “Now get out your copy of the play, and let’s start before this day gets any older. Act II, scene i, line 1. Page 25. The pages numbers are in the corners, if you have any trouble finding them.”

            “I _can_ find them, thank you very much,” Gregory said, getting pretty peeved with her attitude. “I’ve read books before, I know how they work.”

            “Huh!” scoffed Hermione. “You’ve read before? What, was it your copy of _Wicked Witches_?”

            “Actually,” Goyle said calmly enough, though unable to fully keep a testy snap out of his voice, “I much prefer _Playwizard_. It’s got better articles, see.”

            Hermione let out a harsh laugh. “Like you ever read the articles!” she said. “All you’d be capable of doing is ogling the pictures.”

            “There you are incorrect,” Gregory countered, making sure to keep his quiet voice free of his normal public grunts and mumbles. “I greatly enjoyed last month’s piece on the endangerment of the Lethifold.”

            The cruel scowl on Hermione’s face mixed poorly with the sudden influx of astonishment. Her brow, twisted already as it was, became so knitted that it looked ready to peel off her face. “You’re having me on,” she said, trying to convince herself that it was a fact.

            “No,” Gregory said, his voice methodical and reassuring. “The article was about how Lethifolds live solely in tropical climates and how the Muggles keep cutting down the tropical forests, which has killed off hundreds of animal species. The Lethifolds suddenly find themselves without food, and the need to hunt down wizards becomes greater than it normally should be (they don’t eat Muggles, you know). But, thanks to the recent war with Voldemort— _yes_ , Granger, stop gaping, I actually said his name—a far greater percentage of wizards have learned the Patronus Charm, which is the only defense against Lethifolds. Because of all this, the Lethifolds have less to eat and are starving to death.”

            Goyle wasn’t Hermione—he did not sound like he had swallowed a textbook. Nevertheless, he sounded well informed about the situation with the Lethifolds, and this confused Hermione a great deal. How did this shadow of Malfoy, who had barely spoken a word in the past seven years, come to know so much about Lethifolds? What’s more, if he hadn’t spoken a word in the past seven years, why was he now expressing his opinion, quietly yet fluently, in a way that hinted at a deep intelligence that she never knew existed? Gregory watched in satisfaction as she became too confused to be angry, too frustrated with her own lack of knowledge to attribute any more stupidity to him.

            “But…” she said, shaking her bushy head. “But… you’re stupid, Goyle! You’re an idiot!” This time she didn’t sound upset at him. This time she sounded like her world had turned on its head, and she was trying desperately to set it right again. “You and Crabbe are the thickest people in the entire school!”

            Gregory laughed. “Ha, Crabbe’s certainly a bonehead. And Malfoy certainly wishes I were, too. But I’m not.”

            “Yes, you are,” Hermione said automatically, like she had read it in a schoolbook somewhere.

            “No, I’m not,” Gregory said patiently. “I am, in fact, quite smart.”

            “Prove it,” Hermione answered, staring at him like he was a freak show.

            “What?” Goyle said, taken aback. “Prove it? How?”

            “Dazzle me with the brains you claim you have,” Hermione said, her gaze boring into him.

            Gregory had always wanted everyone to know how smart he was, but now that he finally had the chance, he didn’t know how to prove it. There were a thousand subjects he could broach, a thousand topics into which he could dive, and each one of them would reveal his knowledge in one subject or other. But the question was, which one should he choose? Which one would most convince a Gryffindor know-it-all? For a minute he didn’t know what to say; he stood in a silence that Hermione waited stubbornly for him to break. Then he decided to play up on Hermione’s deepest passion: books. Recalling a memory from a previous play practice, he began to speak.

            “You were reading _Women in Love_ ,” Gregory said to Hermione, his face slowly lighting up with his widening smile. “Great book, by the way—anything by D. H. Lawrence is worth the read—but that’s beside the point. Anyway, I overheard you telling Ron you were going to _‘pop over to the ladies’ room and pull a Portnoy.’_ Remember that?”

            Hermione nodded slowly, her breath suddenly drawing up short.

            “Naturally, Ron had no idea what you were talking about, but I did. You were making an allusion to Philip Roth’s novel _Portnoy’s Complaint_ , which features a Jewish kid called Alexander Portnoy, who spends the entire book masturbating, having sex, or wishing he wasn’t Jewish. Well, the compulsive masturbation is the most notorious part of the novel, so I figured that was what you were referring to. In other words, you were going over to the ladies’ room to masturbate. Probably because you just finished reading the nude wrestling scene in _Women in Love_.”

            It was a battle for Hermione—she was torn between being flabbergasted at Goyle’s sudden intuition and blushing over the discovery he had made with it. She tried to fight down both reactions by asking, “You read Muggle literature?” Much to her dismay, the wonder was clear in her voice.

            “Sure I do,” Gregory said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I know hardly any good novels written by wizards. All we got is Charles Durdge and his Founders Play, which really isn’t much at all.”

            “Do you really think Durdge’s version was so awful?” Hermione asked, suddenly earnest. “Dumbledore _constantly_ rags on it, and it’s really getting on my nerves.”

            “It was okay,” Gregory said, shrugging his shoulders. “It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it worked, for the most part. I think Dumbledore’s just sore from having to see that play every other year, complete with terrible student actors and a measly school budget. And it _does_ have some historical inaccuracies.”

            “But no more than Dumbledore’s reprehensible play!” Hermione argued. “How could he assume that his version is possibly any better?”

            “Actually,” Gregory said, chuckling a little, “I did some research right after he assigned us the roles, and I found that his script _is_ more accurate in all but speech, which is supposed to be stylized anyway. Gryffindor was indeed a bit of a slut, and Ravenclaw really did have an affair with a stable boy.”

            “And the librarian?” Hermione asked. “And his lover?”

            Goyle nodded. “Those, too. It took me three books before I found a passing notation, but there they were.”

            Hermione shook her head, trying to clear it, then sat down on a window seat at the end of the alcove. “I’m sorry, Goyle, it’s just so… _screwy_ , trying to imagine, er, you reading…”

            Gregory huffed indignantly. “Of course I read,” he said, a little wounded. “How else do you think I pass all my classes? I got into NEWT potions with Snape, for Merlin’s sake.”

            “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re in NEWT potions,” Hermione said quickly. “We share that class. I…”

            Gregory put his hands on his hips. “How exactly do you think I could have gotten into that class if I hadn’t gotten an O on my OWL?”

            Hermione shrugged helplessly and said, just above a whisper, “Uh, well… I sort of thought that you… that Snape just let you in, because he unfairly favors Slytherins, you’ve got to admit!” She spewed out the last part in a rush, trying to squeeze in her explanation before Gregory’s indignant response.

            “Snape wouldn’t go _that_ far!” he gasped. “Sure, he screws up the points system and assigns unfair detentions, but he wouldn’t even _dream_ of letting a less-than-brilliant student into his NEWT class! You have to realize that Snape may favor his house, but he favors his subject far more.”

            “Oh,” Hermione said quietly, realizing that Goyle had a point. Not knowing what else to say, she fiddled with her fingers and looked down at her lap.

            Goyle sighed and slumped against the shelves. “Hmph, I suppose it’s my own fault that you thought that. I’ve been playing dumb for seven years now; how were you supposed to know otherwise?”

            “But why?” Hermione asked wonderingly. “Contradictory to everything I thought I’ve know for years, you seem pretty intelligent. Why hide it? It must have been torture!”

            “Yeah, well, I certainly didn’t want to,” Gregory Goyle sighed sadly. “But I entered Hogwarts as this chubby little loser with a streak of shyness that was large enough to serve the entire First Year.”

            “Oh!” Hermione said sadly, her hand against her mouth. “And you acted dumb to fit in, so that people wouldn’t make fun of you?” The thought seemed to truly bother her. “I’m so sorry! I wanted to do that so many times in elementary school, but it was too late, as everyone already knew how smart I was.”

            “No, it wasn’t that,” Goyle said. “What happened was this: I was on the train, looking for a place to sit, when Draco sauntered up to me and introduced himself. We knew each other by sight—our dads were both Death Eaters, you know—and it was natural that we’d gravitate towards one another at school. In a few minutes I was friends with both Draco Malfoy and Vincent Crabbe, though it was immediately obviously that this was not a friendship of equals. Draco was always the leader, and it wasn’t until a day later that I realized that, to keep his friendship, I could not seem smarter or better than him. So, knowing how hard it would be to make new friends in my house, especially if Malfoy rejected me, I played the part of a dumb sycophant and kept his company.”

            “Oh no,” Hermione murmured, her eyes shining with tears. “Oh, Goyle, the thought breaks my heart! I would have never _dreamed_ that a smart kid would do that to himself, but for it to have happened to someone I thought I knew for the past seven years—and for me to have never even _known_ —it’s almost too much! If I had even guessed, we could have been partners in Potions or Defense Against the Dark Arts, and then I would’ve seen how smart you were, and then maybe we could’ve been friends.”

            Goyle shrugged miserably. “Hey, what’s done is done. I can’t change it now.”

            “Yes, we can,” Hermione said earnestly. “Tell me truly, how do you feel about Malfoy?”

            For a moment Goyle stared at his hands, trying to decide what he truly thought about his best friend. He coughed a little to buy himself a bit of time. Then, at long last, he said, “I dunno. He’s been my friend since First Year; it’d seem a shame just to drop him now.”

            “Do you want to drop him?” Hermione asked.

            “Yes. No. Maybe. He’s so controlling. And he makes me act dumb. And he’s a slut. But at least he, like, is there for me and stuff.”

            Hermione stood up and moved opposite of Goyle, absorbing the tears in the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. “It sounds to me like you need to do some serious reevaluating here,” she said crisply. “I don’t think you like Malfoy very much, do you?”

            Goyle shrugged again. “Perhaps not,” he confessed quietly.

            “And Crabbe?”

            “Idiot,” Gregory answered promptly. “What else can I say? He’s the world’s biggest douche bag.”

            “So what are you going to do about them?”

            “No idea,” Gregory said. “Give me time to think about it, and I’ll tell you then.”

            Hermione surveyed him for a long while, evaluating his conflicted facial expressions and shifting body. Going against her knee-jerk reaction, she decided not to press the matter and said, “Okay, then.”

            “In the meantime,” Gregory said hastily, “let’s get back to practice.”

            “Fuck practice,” Hermione said calmly, causing Goyle to gasp in astonishment. “You have just proved you have a brain, and thus I think I can trust you that you have your lines memorized and your character down pat.”

            Gregory’s eyes were wide as he realized that one more person had finally comprehended his intelligence and that this person wasn’t going to abuse or ignore it (as Malfoy did). Even better, Hermione was as intelligent as him—perhaps he’d finally found someone with whom he could carry a conversation for more than two minutes! “Are you sure?” he said timidly.

            “Sure I’m sure,” she said. “I’m sick of practicing for this twatting play.”

            “Then what’re we going to do for the rest of the afternoon? Are you going to run by Professor Vector’s to get help on that project thing your class is doing?”

            Hermione shook her head firmly and said, “No. I have just found a wizard who actually reads D. H. Lawrence, Shakespeare, and Philip Roth, and I’m about to have a long conversation with him.”

            Goyle gazed at her, his eyes shining with hope and his heart racing with excitement. “Did you also mention Faulkner?” He could barely keep the tremble out of his voice as his dam of eager knowledge, backlogged over seventeen years of life, finally began to break.

            “Really?” Hermione said breathlessly. “And Jane Austen?”

            “Say her name one more time, and I shall orgasm,” Goyle said passionately. “Whoever doesn’t like Jane Austen needs to reevaluate his life.”

            “Or hers,” Hermione added in an effort to be politically correct.

            “But mostly _his_ ,” Goyle added, grinning. “I mean, Austen’s a favorite of people everywhere, but especially women. Even that really famous British author loves Austen.”

            “Which really famous British author?”

            “The one who’s made a couple hundred million pounds or so,” Goyle said. “I forget her name, but I think her books are supposed to be awesome, once I get around to reading them.”

            “What about _The Crying of Lot 49_?”

            “LOVE.”

            “And Pynchon’s other book, _Gravity’s Rainbow_?”

            “Reading that right now. What a strange fucking book!”

            “Oh, I know! It’s pretty gross, too, but not as bad as Marquis de Sade.”

            “Granger, I never would have believed it of you! You actually read de Sade?”

            “Call me Hermione. And of course—I read _everything_ , you know, Goyle.”

            “Oh, duh. And call me Gregory. What’s another favorite author of yours?”

            “Charlotte Brönte.”

            “Anthony Burgess.”

            “J.R.R. Tolkien.”

            And so on and so forth.


	12. A Triangle in Formation

            The first thing Harry realized as he and Luna traipsed through the double doors of the Entrance Hall was that it was uncomfortably chilly outside. November was technically in the autumn, but the trees were bare as skeletons, and the sky had turned the translucent gray shade of a promising snow cloud. The air was dry and cold. Harry immediately rolled down his sleeves, but found that it didn’t help.

            “It’s cold!” he hissed to himself. “Merlin, why did Dumbledore have to send us outside to practice our act?”

            “He suggested the stables,” Luna said, her head tilted to one side at an angle that was too crooked to look normal. “Just before we left, you must have heard him.”

            “Must’ve missed it,” Harry muttered. Actually, he was still too preoccupied by Luna and Ginny’s catfight to pay attention to anything else. He wasn’t Crabbe—he had a brain, and it could figure out that two girls were fighting over him, and it knew why. Luna was eager to pursue some relationship with him, and Ginny was desperate to hold onto him. It was a straightforward development, but it portended some acutely uncomfortable decisions that loomed in Harry’s future, like swords dangling above his head only by a thread of magic.

            Let’s see how it stood: Break up with Ginny, go with Luna, and face the heat of dumping one girl unceremoniously for the other. Or: Repel Luna’s advances, stay with Ginny, and be a bored, miserable wanker. Either choice broke that thread of magic holding the sword, effectively decapitating any chance at a convenient resolution.

            “Well, he _did_ say it,” Luna said.

            “Say what?” Harry had forgotten what they were talking about already.

            “Go to the stables to practice,” Luna repeated.

            “Oh, that,” Harry said quickly, suddenly remembering. “Yeah, I only heard him say go outside.”

            They started down the steep slope towards Hagrid’s Hut. The stables were between the half-giant’s house and the castle gate, though Harry had never really explored them during any of his nighttime wanderings.

            “It must’ve been the Cockleflurr,” Luna said sympathetically. “Really, Harry, you must learn to ignore them, or they’ll take shameless advantage of you.”

            “What are—?” Harry stopped suddenly, not wanting to hear Luna’s explanation. He quickly revised his question: “What are the stables like?”

            “I don’t know, I haven’t visited them, either,” Luna replied. She skipped lightly over a gnarly hump in the path, while Harry tripped stupidly against it. He cursed himself a million times in his mind and tried to muster forth all the mental focus he had gained during training for his final fight with Voldemort.

            “I hope they’re warm,” Harry chattered, not really thinking about what he was saying. For some reason, he felt the urgent need to fill up the space between the castle and the stables with conversation. He cursed himself again when he realized how whiny he must have sounded.

            “You didn’t bring your cloak,” Luna said with a sidelong glance at him. “That’s too bad.”

            “Y-yeah,” Harry said, his cheeks turning a cherry red, possibly because of the cold, but definitely because of his blush. _Shut the hell up, Harry Potter!_ he chastised himself. _Nothing good is coming out of your mouth!_

            “How about Warming Charm?” Luna suggested.

            “Can you cast one?” came the hopeful reply. The wind was really biting at him now.

            “Nope,” Luna said as her serene smile turned quite impish, “but certainly the great Harry Potter can?”

            At first Harry was a bit insulted by her terminology, having spent all his school years avoiding the limelight and all the insinuations it dumped upon him. He turned to glare at her, but then saw the laughter in her eyes. She was just teasing him. “Har har,” he said sarcastically, “but the great Harry Potter isn’t all powerful. It’s not like I can pull magic out of the air and make it do anything I want. I actually have to learn a spell and practice it, like everyone else.”

            “But think of all the spells you cast during the last battle!” Luna pressed, her eyes wide. “Certainly a Warming Charm must pale in comparison.”

            “Exactly,” Harry said firmly. “I was training for a _battle_ , for Merlin’s sake! A Warming Charm did not seem like a useful addition to my arsenal.”

            “And after the battle?” Luna asked, securing her arm more firmly around his.

            “And after the battle,” Harry finished, “it was fucking July. So I learned the Cooling Charm. Which is as useful as air conditioning in the Antarctic at this point.”

            Luna ran her smooth palm down the side of Harry’s face. The comforting stroke painted a line of tingling warmth on Harry’s cheek, and his blush increased. “Fear not, my battle hero,” Luna cooed, “We’ve reached the stables, see? They’re sheltering, they’re warm. Like a womb.”

            She emphasized the last words, which somehow translated from _like a womb_ to _like my vagina_ between her lips and Harry’s brain. By now he was beet red and sending so many curses at his own brain that it would have been as dead as Voldemort had they been real.

            “I see the Skeezers have been painting scarlet canvases across your face,” Luna remarked, running a finger along Harry’s blushing cheek. “Why have you let them get to you?”

            Harry tried not to bring his hands up to cover the burning sensation of embarrassment that flushed his face. Why was it that Luna was so adept at making him feel acutely aware of every stupid mistake his body made? “Let’s get into the stable,” Harry said quickly, dragging her by the hand.

            The stable looked adequate from the outside. It was a nondescript building made of plain wood with no paint. It looked large enough to hold two-dozen horses, and the roof looked thick enough to shut out the strong breeze that had been tormenting Harry for the past five minutes. The inside matched the outside—there were indeed two-dozen stalls, twelve on each side, and there was also a rickety loft above from which a man could pour down a horse’s food into its trough, and it was all built in the same plain style as the outside—except for one thing. The roof was _not_ as thick as it looked. It had a thousand tiny gaps along the eaves, which enticed even the weakest drafts to come swirling in, which were just enough to send shivers down Harry’s spine. Perhaps the structure itself once had a Warming Charm, but as there were currently no horses, any possible spellwork had faded away into nothing.

            “Fuck!” Harry moaned. “I’m still freezing! This didn’t help at all!” He hunched inward, trying desperately to shelter his chest with his frigid shoulders. In didn’t work.

            Luna shuffled closer to him and wrapped one arm—her left arm, Harry knew without thinking—around his shoulders. “I’m glad you’re cold,” she whispered into his ear. “I’m glad it’s come to this.”

            “C-come to what?” Harry said grievously, pained at her callousness. The wind was as cold as Ginny’s recent kisses and as biting as her most caustic comebacks, and the best Luna could think up was “I’m glad!”

            “Well, this just goes to show you’re not all-powerful,” Luna reasoned. “And while you are obviously strong and _very_ brave—you defeated Voldemort, after all—there’s something very boring about a perfect man. A man like that can’t be made any better—he simply reaches his pinnacle, then coasts through the rest of his life in a complacent ease, if the Gnarls don’t drag him down, that is.”

            “So you want a man with lots of flaws?” Harry said, feeling very confused by her logic.

            “Only a few flaws will do,” Luna purred softly. “And you have just enough to match me.”

            “You? Flaws?” Harry couldn’t figure this out. Luna never let any of her flaws show! The only thing that people might find wrong with her was that she was so weird. But that’s what Harry _liked_ about her—that she wasn’t normal! His relationship with Ginny had been exhilarating in its heyday, but it was still very much a storybook romance with a depressing reality that sneaked in after the Happily Ever After. It started out the same as the supposedly perfect romance, and now it was ending just like every other. The sex was good ( _but did we do it too soon?_ he wondered), and the talks were good, when they happened. But really, it was such a cliché romance they had! So much fluff—so many declarations of undying love, so many promises to live the rest of their lives together, so many fueled sessions of passion in various broom cupboards and hidden rooms, and hardly any fights before the final battle. Maybe Luna was right. Maybe perfect was too boring.

            “I have flaws,” Luna said openly, her eyes wide on her face. “Sometimes I let the Gnarls get to me, too.”

            Harry gave a sort of smile. It was only a sort of smile, because he was not sure what expression was passing over his face, although he was painfully aware of the way in which Luna would read it. Would she think he was glad she was talking to him or insanely nervous? Or maybe she realized he hardly knew how to reply. All of these were true.

            “Now about the Warming Charm,” Luna said, hardly changing her tone. “It’s a good thing you and I can’t do one, because the Heebripple is eager to help us.”

            “How do you mean?” Harry said. Suddenly he was interested in this dubiously existent animal. Luna was constantly referring to phenomena nobody else had ever heard about, and at times it drove Harry up the wall, trying to figure out what she was talking about. But today he suddenly wanted to know what each animal stood for and in what way it influenced the svelte Ravenclaw that stared into his wide green eyes. Before he hadn’t wanted to hear her explanation about the Cockleflurr; now he did. Knowing what the Cockleflurr was would tell him something more about Luna, he was sure. So would the Heebripple. Before, all this was unimportant. Now he had to know.

            “Well,” Luna danced around the chilly stable in a sublimely languid twirl, her rich blue cloak tickling the straw and mud as her starkly blond hair hung in the air as if suspended in innumerable rays of sunshine. For one eternal moment she shimmered as the only vision of light in the graying stable, and it knocked the bottom of Harry’s stomach clean from his body.

            Then she flitted towards the loft and continued speaking. “The Heebripple says to ascend the ladder to the loft and go to the circular window at the end.”

            Harry didn’t even think to ask why. Unswervingly obedient, he clambered up the ladder after Luna and pattered towards the end of the barn, where a circular window stood at the level of his torso, just wide enough for him to leap from, though he never entertained the notion.

            The windowpanes were long gone. The wind sought that very opening and whined through it, freezing Harry so much that the cold sunk past the skin and towards the bone.

            “This is not helping!” he bawled as the wind whooped loudly through the rafters.

            “Now the Heebripple says to look out the window!” Luna called as she stood beside him, both arms wrapped around his middle.

            So he looked out. From this window he could see the Forbidden Forest, its trees littering the landscape like a pile of skeletons relieved only by the clumps of evergreens. Beyond it were the icy mountains. It was now snowing.

            “Can you see him?” Luna asked, looking up from his chest and into his eyes. “Can you see the Heebripple?”

            Was this one of her tricks? There was no such thing as a Heebripple! Just like there were no nargles or Cockleflurrs. Just like the blush on his cheeks was from embarrassment, not Skeezers. Just like she was the craziest person he knew in Hogwarts, except perhaps Dumbledore. So, he reasoned, the Heebripple _couldn’t_ exist! Could it? Whether it did or not, Harry stared out that window, his eyes watering in the wind. The snow was rapidly growing thicker as it dusted the brownish grass of the Hogwarts grounds. The sky was now more white than gray, and its burnished hue made the outdoors suddenly brighter. The skeleton trees were now gathering flecks of skeleton white. But there was no Heebripple. “What does he look like, the Heebripple?”

            “I can’t explain it to you,” Luna said cryptically, “there are really no words for it. But you’ll know when you see him.”

            So Harry squinted his eyes and tilted his head. He blinked a few times, then stared hard into the gathering snow. But, unless he failed at observation, or unless Luna was having him on, that Heebripple remained stubbornly elusive.

            He turned to look down into Luna’s bright gray eyes. “I—” he began. He meant to say _I can’t see him_ ,but Luna chose that very moment to reach up and kiss him squarely on the lips.

            For a moment Harry was too shocked to do anything but stand stupidly beside the girl who was kissing him. Then, partly out of habit and partly out of grateful excuse, he responded to the kiss with an eagerness that surprised him. Luna’s mouth was a bit smaller than Ginny’s, but it was warmer, and the taste was more fresh, more wild.

            Then Harry’s blood grew hotter, and his arms wrapped around Luna’s slim shoulders in an effort to pull her body up against his. It was a successful effort, thanks also to her willingness to intensify the situation. She deepened the kiss, slipping in a little tongue, before suddenly breaking away, keeping Harry at an arm’s length from her.

            “Can you see the Heebripple now?” she asked mischievously.

            Harry had forgotten he was cold—heck, how could he be so cold when his veins burned so hot? He had forgotten he was in a rundown stable with no horses. He had especially forgotten about the bloody play practice. He was much too occupied with what he was quickly coming to realize was the best kiss in his whole life. Better than any Ginny had given him. Better by far than Cho’s lame-arse crying snog. Better than his pillow fantasies.

            As if in a trance he turned towards the window at Luna’s question, his hands still running inquisitively up and down Luna’s cloaked arms. He saw the snow outside, now falling thick enough to obscure most of the trees. He saw the sky above, covered in snow clouds. And he felt, rather than saw, the warmth that flooded through his soul as he held a beautiful Ravenclaw with a heart of quicksilver.

            Who wanted a heart of gold? _Everyone_ had a heart of gold, so long as they were glued to the lips of the person distributing the honorific. In the past Ginny had a heart of gold and a spirit of fire, and look where it got them! No, Luna’s heart was quicksilver, and her spirit was a phoenix. Why was this? Harry had no heck of an idea. It just sounded cool in his brain, though he wasn’t really thinking about it at the time. He thought more about it afterwards, and yet he was also thinking it sort of now. What the hecking fuck! It was all mixed up and down and around anyway! What did it matter what he thought and when? He had kissed Luna. He had _kissed_ Luna Lovegood!

            And as he held in his arms the phoenix spirit with a heart of quicksilver, them both staring out into the growing snowstorm, impervious to the wind, he felt his breath catch in his throat, and somewhere in his mind a barrier broke, and he felt a sudden inrush of knowledge that he never knew he had. He looked out into the snowstorm and whispered, “I see it, Luna, yes! I see the Heebripple!”

            And she was right. There were no words for it.

 

~~~~~

 

            “If she’s abusing this opportunity by springing a surprise snog on him, I’m going to clock her senseless, then get Malfoy to rape her unconscious arse,” Ginny said sullenly, glaring into the mirror.

            “The Malfoy part should be pretty damn easy,” Ron said with a slight smile as he brushed his sister’s hair with meticulous strokes.

            “It just… she just…” Ginny’s breath grew faster as her brow wrinkled into a helpless frown of frustration. She pounded her fist against the makeup station, and the blushes and greasepaints danced a startled little hop before clattering back on the counter.

            “Ssshh,” Ron said softly, brushing with one hand and giving his sister a gentle hug with the other. “Just calm down, take a deep breath… that’s it, like that… and just _wait_. Then think… think about what you’re trying to say, then tell me.”

            Ginny dabbed at the corners of her eyes, then took two deep breaths just to make sure she had fully collected herself. Then she continued, her voice catching a little in her throat. “I’m angry,” she said, and Ron believed her. “Of course Luna’s trying to steal my boyfriend. She’s had a crush on him almost as long as I had. Ever since our First Year she’s always had an affinity for writing his name on her notes and in her books. And she talked about him an awful lot, if I remember correctly. She was a lot better about it than me, though: She never pined ridiculously for him, because she was just too… _perfect_ for that. She just waited patiently, even when I took Harry as my boyfriend. For a period of time she stopped writing his name on her books, she stopped elaborating her fantasies to me, and she even helped me secure his affections.”

“Wow, this is news to me,” Ron said, raising his eyebrows. “I always thought Luna had a wetness for Harry, but a full-blown, six-year crush? Harry never knew, I’ll bet.”

“Yeah,” Ginny said sullenly. “But the second she realized things weren’t working out between Harry and me, she began writing his name and drawing his picture again, fantasizing about him, and even actively trying to break us apart.

            “So you’re mad at her for moving in on him,” Ron prompted as he took three thin strands near the top of Ginny’s head and started a French braid.

            “Yes. No. No, I think.’

            “Meaning…” Ron gathered another strand of hair and added it to the braid.

            “Meaning, well…” her face darkened, and her eyes filled with weary age. “It’s only logical she should make a move now. She senses—rightly—that Harry and I are… are falling apart. So she helps speed the process along so that she can get him for herself. Fuck, maybe I should even be grateful. She’s shortening the final throes of agony before the inevitable death.” She scuffed her toe at the floor and looked so miserable that Ron gave her another hug (with his elbows and chest, because his hands were tied up with the French braid).

            “You’re being ridiculous,” Ron said. “In a way, Luna’s still stealing your boyfriend, even though you two as an item are about to be yesterday’s news. It’s natural that you’d feel angry at her.”

            “God cunting damn it!” Ginny cried, jerking her head suddenly to face her older brother. Her braid became undone, and she glared into Ron’s eyes with a ferocity that looked feral. “Who I’m really mad at is Harry! If it weren’t for the way he’s been acting, we’d still be a happy couple, and Luna wouldn’t be sniffing after him. I can’t believe he’d let our relationship end this way!”

            Ron turned her around again and started the braid all over again. “What way? What’s he done?” he asked.

            Sniffing back a tear, Ginny said slowly, “I… don’t know. He’s letting our romance drag in the gutter. He kisses me with his face screwed up, like he’s kissing a fish or a cockroach.”

            “Or a Malfoy,” Ron added with an attempt at levity.

            “And he’s just… scorning the fact that he ruined our fairytale ending,” Ginny said ignoring Ron’s joke. “He’s acting like there’s something wrong on my part, when it’s really him who’s caused this.”

            Ron braided slowly and said, “So what do you plan to do?”

            “What do you think I should do?” Ginny cried, a little hysterical. She jerked her head around to face him, and if it hadn’t been for Ron’s quick fingers she would have ruined the French braid again.

            “Honesty is the best policy,” Ron said sagely, turning her head back around so that they were gazing eye-to-eye only by way of the mirror. “In this case, at least. Tell him how you feel, tell him why you feel that way, and work things from there. Just don’t expect any miracles.

            “Fuck talking to him,” Ginny growled. “I want to punch him in the gut!” She smacked her fist against her opposite palm for savage emphasis.

            “You can do that, too,” Ron agreed, barely managing not to grin at the mental image. He finished the braid and tied it off. “Whatever you think will get the message across the best. Just keep in mind that he’s still my best friend, and I want him back in one piece.”

            “Huh,” Ginny said listlessly. “Best friend.”

            “But you’re my little sister,” Ron promised her, giving her a light kiss on the head. “And you’ll always be my favorite.”

            Ginny managed a small smile as she felt her braid. “You know, Ron, you’ve changed a lot.”

            Ron chuckled. “So I’ve heard.”

            “I mean, for the better,” Ginny clarified. “For the _lot_ better.”

            “Yes, I’ve heard that one, too.”

            He gave her a hug, and she buried her face in his chest, miserable about so many things and mad at so many people. Her distant boyfriend was doing a nude scene in a miserable play with her erstwhile friend, and she saw no way to repair her relationship with either. Yet for one thing she was glad: Ron was her brother, and he was the best a girl could ever hope for. And that was a relationship, regardless of the circumstances, that would never end.


	13. Nude Wrestling

            “Well, my dear boys, isn’t it about time you  head over to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom?” Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling madly.

            Neville and Draco looked at one another. The Gryffindor’s gaze nervously shifted its focus once every few seconds. The Slytherin glared steadily at Dumbledore’s shoes and refused to say a word. The rest of the cast and crew had just left the Great Hall in their little groups, and the two lead actors were the only ones who remained behind.

            “You need copies of the script, I see,” Dumbledore said. “It seems like you left them in your dormitories this time, just as I thought you would.”

            “Yeah,” Neville mumbled shamefully as he scuffed slowly at the ground with his toe. Draco just continued glaring.

            “Not to worry, my dears, not to worry at all,” Dumbledore assured them gaily. “I have two copies of the script with me right now.” He pulled out the offending volumes in question and handed one to each boy. They took them reluctantly, eyeing the tattered corners and stained white covers with distaste. “Sorry, they’re a bit worn,” Dumbledore explained. “They’re from an older draft of the play, so expect a few line changes—but only a few! Most everything else should be the same. Now follow me.”

            He led them from the Great Hall and up the stairs in the Entrance Hall. On their way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the headmaster and director explained just what Draco and Neville’s play practice would involve.

            “I must be firm with you,” Dumbledore said sagely, as if it was a sacrifice on his part. “For the past two weeks you two have refused to allow the spark of any onstage chemistry between your characters. Master Malfoy, you’ve been delivering your lines in monotone since the moment I cast you. Master Longbottom, I sometimes doubt you even know Master Malfoy exists, because you haven’t once made eye contact with him in any of your mutual scenes. It is very harmful to the production, and I find myself in the sad position in which I must put a stop to it—resolutely and without hesitation.”

            Draco and Neville didn’t say anything. They just listened as Dumbledore prattled on, a sluggish dread awakening in their stomachs.

            “I will be locking you in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom,” Dumbledore said as if he did this to students every day. “I’ve also sent for two portraits to watch over you, one with whom each of you are familiar.”

            Draco and Neville didn’t bother to ask which portraits were babysitting them. They merely shot Dumbledore a baleful glance and then turned their gazes towards the floor.

            Dumbledore chose to interpret this as the question he was expecting. “It will be Phineas Nigellus and the Fat Lady who will oversee your practice. Master Malfoy, I’m sure you know the former—he’s your deceased relative. And it is obvious that you, Master Longbottom, already know the latter, as you forget her password every time she changes it.”

            Still no reaction from the apathetic actors. Dumbledore pressed onward with his summary. “Phineas Nigellus and the Fat Lady will be occupying a portrait of Gilderoy Lockhart that he inadvertently left behind in your Second Year. They will observe your practice and make sure that you perform with the level of enthusiasm appropriate for this play. If you fail to meet their expectations, they will make you repeat your scenes until you get it right. You will not be allowed to leave the room until you have completed every scene that includes the two of you together.”

            By this time they had reached the Defense Against Dark Arts classroom. Dumbledore pushed them through the door and into the center of the room, where the desks had been cleared away to allow for plenty of practice space. Framed over the teacher’s desk was a portrait of Gilderoy Lockhart, who was complaining loudly as Phineas Nigellus usurped his gilded chair and allowed the Fat Lady to take a seat. The chair groaned ominously in protest.

            “Hey, that obese lady is going to destroy my majestic throne!” the artistic rendering of Lockhart whined. “I’ve spent the last ten years on that throne, and I don’t want it ruined just yet!”

            “That’s not a throne,” Phineas sneered. “It’s a bloody chair that’s barely fit for a Slytherin to sit in. Now shut your hole and let us get this over with. Dumbledore, you owe me.”

            “Of course, Phineas,” Dumbledore called from the door. He blew the portrait a kiss and said, “Thank you, and thank you, too, Fat Lady! Be good, Gilderoy. You too, Masters Malfoy and Longbottom. Practice well! Etceteras, etceteras!”

            And he twirled elaborately and danced out the door, slamming it behind him. For fifteen seconds or so Draco and Neville heard him cast a series of depressingly complicated spells that locked the door from the outside and kept it locked. When his footsteps finally receded down the hall, neither student even tried to open the door, for there was no point in wasting time on the impossible.

            “So…” Neville shrugged his shoulders and held up the copy of his script. “What do you say that we—?”

            “Let’s get through this as quickly as possible,” Draco interrupted caustically. “I fucking hate Dumbledore right now.”

            The Fat Lady let out a theatrical gasp as she called, “I’m telling Dumbledore what you said, young man!”

            “Oh yeah?” Draco whirled around to yell at the portrait, his fists balled by his side. “Then at the same time tell him I said he’s a cock-gnawing clithead, and that I’d rather fuck a werewolf in its bony arse than even _look_ at his face! And lose some weight, you fat pig, you make me _sick_!”

            The Fat Lady leaned back regally in Lockhart’s chair and eyed Draco with a haughty eye. “I am proud of my fat,” she said austerely. “In my day, obesity was a sign of prosperity.” As she said this, she fingered a large diamond ring that adorned the meaty ring finger on her left hand.

            Draco seethed, knowing he had no comeback. So he jerked his head towards Neville and growled ferociously, “Let’s… get this… the _fuck_ … over with!”

            He sounded so incensed that Neville was convinced he’d start throwing Death Eater curses at any second. Malfoy had never officially joined sides during the war, but it was no secret that he had learned a lot from his father, and Neville still braced himself every time Draco Malfoy gathered a temper. Calling his own training into play, the pale Gryffindor boy took a few deep breaths and mentally summoned a few defense spells to mind while he pulled out his copy of the script.

            “You start out, Act I, Scene i,” Neville said. Draco obeyed, though with a hard glare that assured everyone that he was doing it of his own free will and not on Neville’s orders.

 

**_GRYFF:_ **

_Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,_

_When all the little babies made last fall_

_Inside the thrusts of love are born with pain!_

_The cries of—_

            “Start over,” Phineas Nigellus interrupted him. “Really, Draco, your acting is reprehensible. Can’t you deliver at least one line with expression?”

            Draco snarled mutinously at Phineas, but the deceased man had a far more imposing presence than the Fat Lady, so the young Slytherin kept his silence and started over:

 

**_GRYFF:_ **

_Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,_

_When all the little babies—_

            “Start over,” Phineas said again. “Still not good enough.”

 

**_GRYFF:_ **

_Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,_

_When all the little babies made last fall_

_Inside the—_

“Draco Malfoy, what does it take for you to put some expression into your lines?” Phineas cried in exasperation. “Let your voice boom throughout the entire classroom! Act brave like a Gryffindor, and express yourself as if nobody else’s opinion mattered!”

            “So now _you’re_ the director?” Draco muttered furiously.

            “What’s that, young Malfoy?” Phineas barked curtly.

            “Nothing,” Draco sneered. “Now stop interrupting me and let me get this line right…”

 

**_GRYFF:_ **

_Ah, day, the glorious day Spring Equinox,_

_When all the little babies made last fall_

_Inside the thrusts of love are born with pain!_

_The cries of labor reach a fever pitch_

_As babies squirt out, bloodied, on the earth—_

_The bunnies, kitties, puppies, and the fawns—_

_And then their mothers lick them with their tongues_

_Until the mess is gone. And then they snap_

_Th’ umbilical cord and eat it up, along_

_With the placenta. And bravo! Brava,_

_Bravissimo, bravissima, new life!_

            “Better,” Phineas conceded reluctantly.

            “It still needs some work,” the Fat Lady criticized, “but it’s getting there. Now it’s your turn, Neville.”

            “Oh boy, what fun this is!” Lockhart squealed, his earlier indignation forgotten. “I’ve always wanted to be in a play. If I hadn’t spent my life fighting Dark creatures, I would have become an award-winning actor.”

            “Yeah,” Neville said sarcastically. “And I’m sure your acting would have been just as good as your magic.”

            “But of course!” Lockhart beamed, the jibe flying completely over his head.

            The practice continued in this grating manner for quite some time. After half an hour of repeating his lines three or four times, Draco finally seemed to get a hold of his character. For the first time in the past two weeks he was pouring passion into his lines, and Neville was responding. It was as simple as that. Draco wondered why Dumbledore had bothered to lock them in the room in the first place: The headmaster should have taken charge during one of the practices and used his charismatic personality to force them to act. It would have fallen together.

            But no, Dumbledore just _had_ to work out an elaborate plan that involved a great deal of theatrics in order to do something as simple as this! What was the old man’s problem, anyway? Did he trust Draco and Neville so little that he saw it necessary to lock them in?

            At Act III, scene v, however, the entire meaning of Dumbledore’s wretched histrionics became clear.

            The scene started innocently enough. Gryffindor and Slytherin were in the library alone, having sent away the librarian and his lover to complete an errand in London (at that time, Hogsmeade was merely a quiet hamlet and not enough of a commercial center to warrant any major amount of shopping). The two Founders talked seriously about life and love, and afterwards they briefly reprised one of the earlier musical numbers. Neville was really getting into the spirit of things. When Draco had finally begun acting— _truly_ acting, not just going through the motions like before—the Gryffindor boy had responded with an eagerness amounting to hunger. He latched his gaze to Malfoy’s every move, then responded as innately as if he was Slytherin himself. Draco found this heartening in terms of the play’s potential success, but at the same time it was slightly unnerving.

            In the final draft of _The Quadrangle_ —the draft with which they’d been practicing for the past two weeks—the scene ended with the reprise. However, in this draft, it continued:

 

**_SLYTH_ ** _:_

_You know, sometimes I feel as if my soul_

_Apollyon bides his time within its core._

_I want to strike at anyone who’s near,_

_And make them feel my wrath in its whole sum._

**_GRYFF:_ **

_Turn not your anger to the undeserving,_

_But take it out on me instead. I’m game_

_Unto a fight which you might bring to me._

_Divert your anger not through war, but sport!_

**_SLYTH:_ ** _[sullenly]_

_What, then, do you suggest?_

**_GRYFF:_ **

_A wrestling match._

_A man-to-man, a one-on-one, you, me,_

_And nothing, I mean_ nothing _, in between._

**_SLYTH:_ ** _[eyes wide]_

_You mean…?_

**_GRYFF:_ ** _[measured and slow]_

_You can’t well do real wrestling in shirts_

_And cloaks and leather britches, can you now?_

_[SLYTHERIN and GRYFFINDOR stand up and clear away a space between the shelves. Then they—]_

            “OH, FUCK, NO!!” This came from Draco Malfoy, who, upon reading the next line, promptly threw his script to the ground in a fury.

            Neville gaped at the line as well, his eyes as wide as Dobby’s and his face slowly gathering a sheen of sweat. He licked his lips and read the line aloud:

 

_[—they,_ uh, _strip. They wrestle for approximately three minutes.]_

            “Fucking cockhead!” Draco’s tongue rolled bitterly around the thick swearwords. “Cunt-arse idiot fucking Dumbledore!”

            “We gotta do it,” Neville whispered. His eyes shone with fear, which upset Draco even more, especially since it wasn’t all born of repugnance. A little light shone in Neville’s face that implied that he might actually—no, it couldn’t be!

            “Fucking Merlin! Fucking rape! Fucking Mudblood! Fucking, fucking _Dumbledore!”_ Draco pronounced the headmaster’s name as if it was the worst word of the lot. “Crazy coozing cunnying coot!”

            “Swearing won’t help a thing,” Neville said softly, his voice trembling. “We have to do this, or we’ll never get out of this room.”

            “THEN LET’S DIE IN HERE!” Draco shrieked. “I’d rather fucking _die_ than wrestle naked with you!” He stormed over to the portrait, where the three occupants grinned smugly at Neville and Draco. Reining in the volume on his voice, he said with a quivering calmness, “Tell Dumbledore he deserves to die, and if he had ever been worthy enough to attract a wife and bear children, I would cast _Imperio_ on him and make him rape and torture them to death.

            Neville heard this and immediately recalled to mind every single method Harry had taught him in overcoming the _Imperius_ curse. He was distracted, however, by an undeniable thrill of pleasure at the idea of Malfoy holding him in complete control and forcing him to do acts that Neville would be way too shy to try otherwise.

            “If you say so,” Phineas said, grinning wryly. “It still won’t change the fact that you have to wrestle naked with Master Longbottom.”

            “FUCK!” Draco bawled at him. “SHUT THE HELL UP!” And he whirled around to face Neville, who automatically took two or four steps backwards. For a moment they stared at each other in an acutely uncomfortable silence. Then suddenly Draco dived at Neville, who squealed aloud, whipped out his wand, and tripped backwards.

            But all Draco did was snatch up his copy of _The Quadrangle_. He flipped open to the wrestling scene and reread the fateful stage prompt. “It only says we have to strip!” he cried. “We don’t actually have to get naked.” He whipped off his cloak and threw it towards the corner of the room. It fluttered silently to the ground.

            “No,” Phineas said slowly, as if he were talking to three-year-olds, “you _do_ have to get naked. Wrestling matches in those times were carried out in the buff.”

            “I don’t believe you,” Draco replied, way too quickly to sound convincing. “I don’t fucking believe you’re telling me the truth. You just want to torture us.”

            “No, I’m just trying to get you to stop being a whiny child and do your role properly,” Phineas corrected him irritably. “I promised Dumbledore I’d make you complete each scene properly, and I always keep my word.”

            “Go ask Dumbledore, then!” Draco said frantically. “Go ask him if we can just wrestle with our shirts off or something!”

            “I shouldn’t have to,” Phineas sighed, studying his fingernails. “We’re in charge of you, and you should obey what we say. Besides, the charms on the door will not unlock until you successfully finish every scene in that script to completion.”

            “But this scene isn’t even in the final play,” Draco cried. “Right, Neville?”

            “It’s not,” Neville conceded, his voice trembling nervously, “but it doesn’t matter what’s in the final play. The spells apply to this draft, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” Draco found his lack of argument appalling. It was like he actually _wanted_ to do this.

            “I’ll go ask Dumbledore,” the Fat Lady said, “if it’ll finish this argument any quicker.” And she walked out of the frame.

            For a few minutes everyone in the room waited nervously. Draco prayed to every single higher power he could bring to mind, pleading that Dumbledore let them skip the scene, or at least let them wrestle only partially nude. He shot quick glances at Neville, Phineas, and Gilderoy, whose nerves seemed built more on expectancy than dread, and he didn’t want to know what any of them were thinking.

            Then the Fat Lady returned. “He said wrestle completely naked,” she announced without preamble, sounding way too joyful. She sat quickly in the chair and waited for Draco and Neville to resume the scene.

            Neville shrugged and returned to the middle of the room, where he let his cloak slip form his shoulders. “Gotta do what we gotta do,” he murmured softly, his fingers trembling. His voice might have suggested uncontrollable sorrow, but his eyes expressed a repressed titillation. Draco was beyond disturbed.

            _Okay, so I see people naked all the time,_ Draco told himself. _Girls_ and _boys. And heaven knows I go after Euan Abercrombie in a way that should be illegal. But this is fucking Chrissakes Neville! A bloody Gryffindor, and a dimwitted one at that. I don’t care how well he did in the last battle, he still fails in Transfiguration, and he has the worst tan ever. I don’t care if he’s burned off his baby fat, he’ll still look like a piece of chalk to me._

            Neville slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and Draco’s determination to hate this wrestling match hit an obstacle. Yes, the Longbottom boy was almost as pale as Voldemort, but all that training for the last battle (something the entire D.A. went through) had given him some impressive muscles—muscle, Draco saw, that he had maintained since Voldemort’s defeat last summer.

            Draco removed his shirt. His skin was pale like Neville’s, but it was lustrous and creamy, smooth to the touch and fortified with plenty of skin-building lotions that gave it a permanent sheen. Each groove caught the light in a way that made Draco distinctly proud of his own body. He could spend hours gazing at himself and never tire of it, so beautiful was he.

            Neville removed his shoes and socks. Then he unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and slid them slowly down his legs. He stepped out of them and stood before Draco in his underwear. The blond Slytherin had expected him to be wearing some unimpressive undergarments, maybe baggy white boxers or tighty whities that didn’t quite fit, but once again Neville surprised him: He was clad in form-fitting black briefs that were lowcut and flattering to his form.

            “Whoo! Take it all off!” This bawdy cheer came from the Fat Lady, whose hands bunched unconsciously at her skirts in anticipation.

            “Don’t look at us, pedophile!” Draco cried, creeped out.

            “You’re of age,” she replied, too excited to sound condescending. “So there’s nothing wrong with it. I feel no guilt.”

            Draco glared at her and turned to Phineas. “Then don’t _you_ look, you gross old man! Or are you gay?”

            Phineas raised his eyebrows coolly and sniffed. “In my day, men saw other men naked all the time. It did not mean we were homosexual. We did not automatically equate nudity with sexuality as you youths foolishly do nowadays.”

            Shot down once again, Draco turned to glare at Lockhart, whose face grinned eagerly at him. The former professor shrugged and replied, “I _am_ gay. Certainly the hair curlers told you that much?”

            “ _Fuck_ ,” Draco swore for what seemed like the millionth time in the past hour. He turned back to Neville and stepped out of his trousers as well. Then, exchanging a mutual look filled with both dread and anticipation, they removed their underwear simultaneously.

            When Neville straightened his body, Draco fully expected his hands to fly over his penis to protect his modesty. But for the third time in the past five minutes Neville surprised him by standing with his legs slightly open and his hands by his side, allowing Draco a full view.

            He was entirely justified in doing so. Draco’s eyes traveled involuntarily and indecently towards the organ in question, and even when he fought his utmost he couldn’t keep his eyebrows from jutting towards his hairline. “Wow, Longbottom, you’re big!” he breathed before he could stop himself.

            Neville blushed and said, his voice cracking as it tried to push above a whisper, “You, too.”

            Once upon a time Draco had overheard a First Year girl from Slytherin telling her little friends that male bodies were gross. “They’re so bumpy, and they have hair in all sorts of weird places!” she had complained. Draco had shaken his head and laughed quietly to himself. As it was, he found the male body attractive for the very reason the girl had found it unattractive. As he gazed at Neville’s body, he worshipped the square cut of the boy’s shaven jaw, which ran into the short neck with its bobbing Adam’s apple. From the collarbone Draco gazed lovingly at the chest, pectorals stretched and knotted, the nipples dark and defined. A sculpted line of hair trickled down his abdomen, which was healthily defined in a six-pack that would have qualified Neville to be a model if he ever cared to try. His arms didn’t bulge with barely contained brawn, but rather the biceps strung themselves lithely over the bone, where they dipped smoothly into forearms, which in turn connected seamlessly to the wrists and hands. Draco thought he could spend an age just watching Neville pivot the wristbone as he flexed his arms and admired his muscles.

            Now for the lower body. Draco determined the sexiness of the foot by the quality of the little toe. He hated the feet that had been squished inside their shoes too long, causing the little toe to grow directly against the others, plastered grossly to the edge of the foot with only a sliver of a toenail. Neville’s toe was not like this. It was shaped properly in a dimpled arc with a healthy nail on the end, an entity as separate from the fourth toe as the fourth was from the middle and the middle from the first. The rest of Neville’s leg was just as sexy. Draco had often imagined that Neville’s legs would possess the quality of pasty dough, not flabby, but merely a sickly smooth line that would dip inward at the knees. He was, once again, wrong. Neville’s calves bulged boldly from the back of his leg, and Draco saw every line in his thigh where the muscles parted and converged. This was not a leg of dough, but one that had been exercised and disciplined into the shape of an iron Adonis.

            Draco’s evaluation of Neville ended at the unavoidable place: In the middle. He allowed his gaze to linger momentarily on the outward protrusion of the hips and the inward dip of the waist, but he inevitably ended up looking directly at Neville’s crowning glory, the organ that he had kept privy until now.

            There were no words to describe it. It was big. It had hair. It had veins. Two testicles hung beneath it, suspended by the scrotum. How unworthy those descriptions were! How scientific, how woefully lacking in artistry! Draco thought he liked the female form more than the male form, but if there was one thing that would change his mind, it was Neville. It blew him away how such an unassuming person could look so unexciting on the outside but be hiding such a body!

            This evaluation, while long in the form of words, took an expert like Draco a mere few seconds to complete by sight. He was sorely tempted to tell Neville to turn around so he could inspect him from behind, but he held his tongue.

            By the sight of Neville’s bulging eyes and parted lips, it was obvious he felt the same wonder over Draco’s body. They both had to bite their tongues to hold back a sigh of utter rapture. The Fat Lady had no such inhibitions, so she sighed for them. Actually, it was more of a squeal. Lockhart squirmed pleasurably, but Phineas, pokerfaced, didn’t move a muscle.

            Then, in an unspoken agreement, the wrestling began. Neville knelt in the starting position, and Draco put an arm around the tensing muscles of his chest while nestling Neville’s back into the curves of his stomach. For a moment they hovered in place, both filmed in sweat and sliding fractionally against one another. Draco was aware, with an intensity bordering on pain, of the way his flaccid penis brushed against the invisible hairs that lined the small of Neville’s back.

            Neville then sprung into action. He rolled out from under Draco and hurled himself over the Slytherin’s back, his abdominals contorting against Draco’s shoulder blades. His bare arm hooked around the blond’s thin neck, the elbow jutting into his chest with such a perfect symmetry that Draco wasn’t sure whether it was the beauty of the arm or the arm itself that knocked the breath out of him. The Slytherin suddenly realized that he really wasn’t a match for the Gryffindor in terms of technique—Harry Potter had taught the D.A. physical combat as well as magical, while Draco had always relied on his wand. However, Draco had his own exercising routine, so while he didn’t know any real wrestling moves, he did have enough brute strength to delay Neville’s victory. He employed this strength by bucking Neville forcefully off his back. The Gryffindor boy landed on the hard floor with a little grunt, but rolled out of the fall and got to his feet, crouching low.

            The two boys circled each other briefly before they lunged simultaneously, their chests meeting with a firm smack. Their arms entwined around each other’s shoulders, the ridges in their abdomen fitted neatly around each other, and their manhood frotted. It took all of Draco’s strength to keep Neville from pushing him to the ground, and it took all of Neville’s strength to keep Draco from turning the tide in his favor.

            The wrestling continued like this for some time. At first Draco was visually aware of every move they made. When Neville rolled away from him, he saw the young man’s flash of pale muscle. He saw the sweat that collected in the triangles of his chest and back. He saw, with a tug to his gut, Neville’s penis as it flapped boldly against his thigh, then against his stomach. It still swayed curtly, even after he found a solid footing with his body low to the ground, his legs locked in a crouch and his back frozen in an arc. In his peripheral vision Draco saw his own body, also pale and tense. It coiled and uncoiled with his every move, accompanied by waves of perspiration. He even caught sight of his own penis as it gyrated with his lunges and rolls, and then hung heavily during his crouches.

            But as their conflict continued, the close contact sent Draco into such a sensual overload that he couldn’t place the images with the movements any longer. He now only knew the action by its touch. He felt the slippery grappling caused by their sweat. He felt the pain in his knees and elbows where they had chafed against the floor, but it didn’t bother him. Quite the contrary, his bruises and scrapes spiked his awareness and left him feeling energized. He also knew every dip and hill of Neville’s body as his own body connected to it. He knew intimately the beating of Neville’s heart against his left breast, coupled with the beating of Neville’s fist against the back of his legs near the buttocks. He knew the pocket between his bicep and armpit that deepened when his limbs bent backwards in an effort to push Draco off of him. Most acutely, he felt the movement of his penis against Neville, and of Neville’s penis against him. He felt their frenzied dancing during the lunges and rolls, then their fluid sliding during the moments of sweaty grappling. However sexualized this realization was, it made it no less real, and no less worthy of his attention.

            Almost as acute was the agonizing stitch in Draco’s stomach, compounding by the beating of his overexcited heart. When he had woken up this morning, he had been mentally reviewing for his Potions test. Never would he have dreamed, even idly, that he would wrestle naked with Neville—and enjoy it!—before he went to sleep. But here he was, doing exactly that, and it was by far the most titillating experience Draco had ever had.

            While Neville had the upper hand for most of the time, Draco executed one brilliant move that sent Neville to the floor, flat on his stomach. Draco sat firmly on his back, just above the curves of his buttocks, and held the Gryffindor’s wrists to the ground. He spread his legs around Neville’s waist, unable to properly process the indescribable relish in the muscles of his butt as they gripped tightly to his adversary’s bare back. He leaned gracefully down to Neville’s ear and whispered heavily, “I win.”

            Then he rolled off of Neville and onto the floor. Neville rolled beside him, both face up with their arms spread-eagled and their shoulders touching. Draco’s penis was at half-mast, and Neville’s was at three-quarters. They were out of breath but still full of a boundless energy that couldn’t be expended by a mere three minutes of wrestling. Draco felt his blood hot under his skin, begging for another round against the boy that had granted him such untamable stamina.

            “Wow,” Neville whispered so softly that only Draco heard him. He turned his head towards the blond Slytherin, trying to catch his gaze. Draco turned his own head, and for a moment they stared into each other’s eyes, their chests rising and falling rapidly.

            Then Phineas had to ruin the moment by saying, “Master Malfoy, your last line— _I win_ —that wasn’t in the script. What Gryffindor actually says is: _I think an angel gave you unto me/ As a friend that most men only dream to have._ ”

            But Draco and Neville weren’t listening. They didn’t see Phineas’s reproving glare, nor the Fat Lady as she fanned herself, nor Gilderoy Lockhart as he kneaded his hands against his clothed crotch. Everything else seemed unimportant compared to what just happened. In fact, they didn’t even feel like finishing their play practice. So what if Dumbledore didn’t let them out and they had to spend the rest of the night together? For now, together was exactly where they wanted to be.


	14. A Lot of Naughty Words and Their Defense

            The PTA called an emergency meeting that Sunday. In reality, it wasn’t exactly an emergency, but there was nothing else to call it, since their regular meetings were only supposed to happen once a month. Ivana made sure Narcissa was ready for a 3:00 meeting, right in the middle of the day where nothing happened. It was too late to beg off for Sunday afternoon luncheon, and too early to beg off for Sunday evening dinner, and only a handful of parents were able to escape to work. This didn’t mean that every other parent came to Narcissa Black’s house for the meeting. The dads (other than Xenophilius Lovegood) turtled themselves away in little nooks and crannies—the golf course, the pool, the overdue yard work—and left the moms to fend for themselves. Even so, they managed their own excuses: Some were “sick,” some had child who were “sick,” one had a dog that was “sick,” another had a Puffskein that was “sick” (what exactly constituted as sick, nobody bothered to figure out), and another few decided that the yard work was too much for their husbands to handle alone. The teachers, meanwhile, didn’t even respond to the memo. However, Ivana’s careful scheduling ensured that an additional ten mothers came to the meeting, bringing the total up the fifty.

            “We met way too early last week,” Ivana told Narcissa plainly as they stood by her regal fireplace. “12:00 noon is possibly the worst time. People were excusing themselves for lunch and early afternoon naps. Heck, some of them claimed they were still at church during the meeting.”

            “They go to church?” Narcissa said, mildly curious. “How do the Christian parents handle their kids going off to Hogwarts to become witches and wizards? I thought that was unbiblical. They even make a fuss when people write _storybooks_ about magic.”

            “Not always,” Kayla Creevey chirped, inserting herself into the conversation. “They’re in love with Gandalf. Mention J.R.R. Tolkien, and you have to wipe the drool off the floor.”

            “That’s revolting,” Ivana said, her face adopting the expression of ultimate suffering.

            “Did you know they’re going to make a movie of _The Lord of the Rings_?” Kayla said excitedly. “A movie tells a story like a book, you know, but it does it with images and sound, not with words.”

            “We _know_ what a movie is,” Narcissa sighed.

            “Oh,” Kayla said. “I thought you wouldn’t…. well, good. Anyhow, there’s going to be a movie of _The Lord of the Rings_ , and they haven’t started making it yet, but there’s this guy nobody knows about called Peter Jackson—you’ve never heard of him, I bet, ‘cause he’s only done schlock horror and this one arthouse film that I just watched and it was actually really good—but he wants to direct the movie. Isn’t that exciting?”

            Ivana turned a baleful eye towards Narcissa and said conspiratorially, “Fangirls.” Then she mimed inserting her finger into her throat and vomiting.

            A few minutes later the parents settled in their armchairs and listened as Ivana made her report. She strode around the golden ballroom, keeping constant eye contact with the parents before her as she outlined the atrocities that she had discovered.

            “Narcissa’s house-elves inserted themselves inside Hogwarts castle this past week to find out just what this play was all about. They have made their first report. From what they’ve seen of the practices, this play has an unprecedented amount of bad language.” She waited as these words sunk in to her audience, and they did, arousing a disapproving rumble. “One of them also helped make the costumes, and it appears that some of the costumes are…” she paused dramatically—“ _low-cut_. _Immodest_.” Another disapproving rumble, plus a few worried whispers.

            “Dumbledore is raising our children to be dirty-mouthed tramps. We shall all Floo over to Hogwarts tomorrow during play practice and demand he put a stop to it.”

            She left no room for argument or counter-suggestion. The fifty mothers nodded in unison, their jaws set and their eyes cold. Xenophilius watched the proceedings with an amused grin on his face.

 

**********

 

            Monday afternoon play practice arrived in a different mood from Friday’s practice. For one thing, there was something magical about the first snowstorm of the winter, and the one on Friday had left the Hogwarts grounds a pearly white that impelled the students to rush outside and start snowball fights and snowmen construction. After such a weekend, it was hard to lose their good moods entirely, however much Potions or paperwork or play practice tried their patience. For another thing, however twisted Dumbledore had become, his idea of dividing the practice into small groups actually worked wonderfully. The set artists had finally finished all their backdrops, which were some of the best eye candy ever created by students, and they were now working with the props master to complete the illusion of reality onstage. Everyone with a singing part now knew the words and tunes to their songs, though Dumbledore still tisked a little at the off-key voices. “We’ll get Flitwick in here to whip you all up to shape,” he promised. “He’s as good at singing as he is at dueling, and that’s saying something.”

            Best of all, however, the individual actors were finally beginning to get along with one another. Hermione Granger and Gregory Goyle went through their scenes only once before Dumbledore pronounced them pitch-perfect. Loser got through his Act III, scene i monologue without stuttering, despite the dozens of profanities that filled the passage. And Ginny was thriving under Ron’s tutelage as his new makeup apprentice, so much so that she forgot to be mad at the insignificance of her bit role in Act III.

            “I’m glad someone’s helping me with makeup,” Ron told her as he applied some onto Loser’s face. “Because I’m playing Helga Hufflepuff as well, and I really can’t direct the makeup application process while I’m onstage.”

            “You’ll make a great team,” Loser piped up, grinning as Ron built a wound on his face with derma wax and fake blood. “Gee, Ron, that gash looks really cool.”

            “You’re getting three more,” Ron said, “including one all the way down your arm. For the sixth scene of this act, you know. Right after the battle.

            “Yeah, I know.”

            “How did your practice with Eloise Midgen go, by the way?” Ginny asked Loser. “On Friday.”

            “Oh, that,” Loser said as he grinned again. “Pretty good. I apologized for the accident on Wednesday—without even stuttering, can you believe it! And she said it was okay, that is was just an accident, and then… We practiced.”

            “That’s all?” Ginny asked, a little bit disappointed at the lack of gossip the incident incited. “No special bond, nothing?”

            “I don’t think so,” Loser said, a bit nervous at Ginny’s questioning. “I mean, it was just a…a normal practice.”

            “Leave the guy alone,” Ron scolded his sister, giving her a gentle punch in the shoulder.

            “Abuse!” Ginny squawked, even though the punch wouldn’t have hurt a house-elf. She flicked him in the side of the head in retaliation. So he pulled out his wand and gave her a pig nose. She countered by sending an Aguamenti charm into his crotch so it looked like he wet his pants.

            “Uh, guys, my makeup,” Loser reminded them as they cast jinxes at each other. They looked up guiltily and quickly canceled the spells before getting back to work.

            “Sorry ‘bout that,” Ron said. “It’s Ginny’s fault she started—” he stopped short when he saw the reproving glare on her face. “Um, yeah… maybe she didn’t. Yeah, she didn’t. It was me.” She nodded contently, and Loser pulled a wry grin.

            “Pussy whipped,” he said smugly. Ginny found this really funny—not only because of Ron’s indignation, but also because it was _Loser_ who had said “pussy whipped,” and it was enough to send her into a fit of giggles for the rest of practice.

 

~~~~~

 

            At around 3:45 an old lady strolled into the Great Hall and draped herself around Dumbledore’s shoulder. The students kept giving her strange looks, so Dumbledore decided to introduce her. “Attention, everyone, this is—” he turned to the lady and whispered, “ _Hey, Connie, are you going by your married name or your maiden name right now?_ ”

            “It’s Connie, everyone,” the old lady told the crowd. “Call me Connie.” Nobody said anything. Once they knew who she was, they decided she was old news (literally), and they returned to their duties. Connie turned to Dumbledore and frowned, saying, “They don’t seem very eager to get to know me.”

            “It’s because you’re a friend of Professor Dumbledore,” Draco answered. They had been practicing the fifth scene of the act, though without the nude wrestling, right before Connie had interrupted them. “We’re all weirded by Dumbledore, and we figure that any of his close friends are bad news.”

            “I disagree,” Luna said, sauntering over from a conversation with Hermione. “Dumbledore is neat. And I’ll bet you are too, Ms. Connie.”

            “Ah, now _here’s_ a polite youngster!” Connie said, grinning gleefully. She patted Luna on the head and gave her a compliment on her gorgeous hair.

            “Are you as perverted as Dumbledore?” Draco asked, not bothering with manners. Dumbledore’s standards of decency were so low these days he could get away with saying practically anything.

            “Almost as perverted,” Dumbledore answered for her. “But I think you take the cake. I never even thought about marrying, having kids, then getting someone to place the _Imperius_ Curse on me so that I had to rape and torture them to death. That’s one shade of kinky I have never considered before.” Draco blushed a beet red as he realized what Dumbledore was saying. Dumbledore laughed gaily and said, “Well, you _did_ instruct the portraits to tell me about it, and they obeyed. You shouldn’t be complaining.”

            “Aren’t you going to deduct points from him, Dumbledore?” Connie said indignantly. “That’s rather inappropriate, especially to be joking about the _Imperius_ Curse. It’s an Unforgivable Curse, isn’t it?”

            “Have no fear, Connie,” Dumbledore crooned, stroking her cheek. “I’ve taken my revenge on him already.” He winked saucily at Draco, then at the nearby Neville. “How’d it go?” he said in a stage whisper. Neville turned from white to red in an instant, and Draco scowled at the headmaster.

            “Get your crooked nose _out_ of this,” Draco hissed at him.

            In truth, Neville had been acting a bit strange during this practice. After the nude wrestling they kissed—passionately. Then they fucked. Draco happened to be carrying around a bottle of lubricant in his discarded robes (which wasn’t all that random, as he wanted always to be prepared for a sexual encounter of any type), and they had put it to good use. _Very_ good use. Phineas Nigellus squinched his eyes tight shut, but the Fat Lady and Lockhart were glued to the spectacle. Lockhart ejaculated onto Phineas’ shoes, and the former headmaster made a huge fuss, swearing never again to get involved in one of Dumbledore’s ideas. After this, they had finished practicing the play. The spells on the door came undone, and Phineas Nigellus left promptly. But Draco and Neville lagged behind and waited for the other portraits to leave. Then they got naked and fucked again. Then they laid in each other’s arms and fucked once more an hour later. They parted ways late that night, and Neville went back to his dormitory and lay awake until early in the morning. He got up at 5:30 and masturbated into the bathroom sink. Then he went back to bed, naked, and fell asleep until 3:00 in the afternoon.

            He and Draco hadn’t seen each other until now. And suddenly Neville felt terrified. As he wandered around the school on Saturday afternoon and all of Sunday, he had wondered what he was going to tell the blond-haired Slytherin the next time they met. What did you say to someone who you hated all your life, and then suddenly had sex with? That Draco was another boy made it even worse, because that now gave Neville the dreaded label: _homosexual_.

            _I’m not, am I?_ Neville wondered, sweating at the very thought. _I went out with Luna. We kissed, and then we had sex. And I liked it—I thought it was pretty good, and I’m sure she did, too. I mean, it wasn’t as perfect as everyone talks about, but that’s because we were inexperienced, right? Or… or was that because I was gay, and my perfect sex wouldn’t happen until it happened with a boy?_

_Maybe I’m bisexual. Yes, that sounds better. Maybe I roll both ways, and I happen to be turned on by both girls_ and _boys. I like breasts, after all. And I like the thought of my penis inside a vaginal cavity. But damn, when Draco gave it to me from behind…! It hurt like hell, but fuck, it hurt so good! The second time was definitely better, because I wasn’t an arse virgin. I’m still sore, though—Draco has a huge penis!_

_STOP! Don’t go on like this. It’s just… it’s just a fancy. Maybe I am straight, and this is just a phase I’m going through. I read that most straight people have homosexual fantasies and even homosexual experiences at least once in their lifetimes. I should be allotted at least three or four more times with Draco before I lose my straight label, right? I really don’t want to have to become gay, because that means I wouldn’t be able to marry a woman and have children._

_All the same, though, I want to be happy. I want to be sexually satisfied, and I want to love who I am. How can I do that if I_ don’t _know who I am?_

“Something the matter?” Luna pattered up from behind and rubbed Neville at the back of his head, near the neck. “You seem down in spirits.”

            “Oh, uh…” Neville quickly racked his brain for an excuse—any excuse other than the real reason—as to why he looked so glum. “Uh… just thinking about Transfiguration. About, uh, how I probably failed the quiz today.” _Fuck it! Why did I say that? Now I have to think about both my homosexuality AND my horrid Transfiguration skills!_

            “You should’ve taken Divination,” Luna said idly. “Just predict your death and you get an automatic O.”

            “M’eh.” Neville shrugged listlessly.

            “Anyhow, I’ll bet that’s not all that’s bothering you. Don’t worry, I won’t make you spill the beans. But my Heebripple and I will be thinking about you and wishing you the best.” And with these words, Luna skipped away, leaving a very confused Neville in her wake.

 

~~~~~

 

            Meanwhile, Connie had discovered Loser, all dressed up in his battle regalia and lounging near the back of the stage. She bullied him mercilessly.

            “So what do people call you?” she asked him with a crooked-toothed leer. “Let me guess… Loser!”

            “Uh…” Loser tried not to stammer out his surprise at her making such an accurate guess. He wasn’t that obvious, was he? “Actually, my name…” he paused, then started over again. “Actually, my name is Clifford.”

            “Oh. Clifford.” Connie wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Is it just me, or is Clifford a really puny name? For some reason, it creates this mental image of a cripple who can’t get it up for his woman. No idea why.”

            “My great-grandfather’s name was Clifford,” Loser said softly, “and he was crippled. His first wife divorced him, but then he married one of his servants, and he managed, despite his condition, to father a kid with her. Haha, I guess his first wife just didn’t turn him on enough!”

            “Or maybe,” Connie retorted, “his first wife left him for someone who could actually give her a proper orgasm. You ever thought about that?”

            “Uh…” Loser paused for a moment and worked out his answer before he replied. “Um, no, I never, eh, thought about that. He died before I was born, anyhow.”

            “A Muggle, I expect,” Connie said shrewdly.

            “My mum was the first bit of magic in the family,” Loser said. “Anyhow, why’re you asking me all of this?”

            “Morbid curiosity, I suppose,” Connie said.

            “Well, stop it, er, I mean, I wish you wouldn’t. I think Dumbledore wants me to be practicing my lines, not chatting with strangers.”

            Connie huffed indignantly and acted as if she’d been hurt. “I’m no stranger, _my dear_. I’m a friend of Al’s. _Dumbledore_ ,” she clarified, when Loser looked confused. “Anyhow, I haven’t the time to waste talking to dim-witted little boys. I must get going.”

            _Get going_ , it seemed, consisted of Connie skipping lightly over to Dumbledore and wrapping her arm around his waist. Loser was sorry to see that she wasn’t going to leave the Great Hall entirely. Even from a distance of a dozen yards he heard her saying to the headmaster, “I dunno, he doesn’t seem any better than his great-grandfather.”

            “I’m working on him, Connie,” Dumbledore assured her. “Just give me time. Give him time. There’s really quite an amazing man underneath all the _ers_ and _ums_.”

            At that moment, the doors to the Great Hall burst open, and fifty adults marched right into the middle of play practice. There were forty-nine women and one man, and none of them looked at all happy (except the man, who was grinning almost as madly as Dumbledore). A few of them were even carrying signs with captions such as: “SAVE OUR KIDS” and “DUMBLEDORE IS THE DEVIL.” For a second the entire practice ground to a halt as everyone stared in dumb silence at the sign-waving parents.

            Luna was the first to break this silence with: “Daddy!” She scampered over to the man, who was indeed Xenophilius Lovegood, and gave him a hug. He lifted her off the ground and squeezed her tight, saying, “How’s my Snookypook? Seen any nargles yet?” To which she replied, “A whole infestation on Friday! But the Heebripple chased them away.” He gave her another hug and said, “That’s my girl!”

            The rest of the Great Hall watched awkwardly, nobody making a move until Dumbledore hopped off the stage, strode gaily over to the parents, and said, “What may I do for you today?”

            “We’re here to protest the play,” Mrs. Bones said, stepping forward and waving her “DUMBLEDORE IS THE DEVIL” sign.

            “How utterly charming,” Dumbledore said, grinning toothily. He turned back to the cast and crew and said, “Scene Six coming up! Master Thomas, have you figured out how to fly the backdrops on and off the stage?”

            “You bet,” Dean replied. “It’s pretty cool, and we don’t even have to use magic!”

            “I _said_ ,” Mrs. Bones repeated, “that we’re here to protest the play!”

            “Actors in place!” Dumbledore cried. “Harry Potter, Luna Lovegood, enter onstage left.”

            Luna sprung out of her father’s arms and up onto the stage, where she met Harry in the wings. At Dumbledore’s sign, the scene began.

 

_[RAVENCLAW and JAMES enter the stables.]_

**_RAVEN:_ **

_Oh dear, oh what a state this world is in!_

**_JAMES:_ **

_Too true, Rowena, how fucked up is man_

_To start a battle in the village square!_

_I may not care for either side or stance,_

_But Olivier is a fine young man, and he_

_Must’ve surely fought a vicious fight today._

_[OLIVIER enters through the stable doors in a fevered state]_

**_OLI:_ **

_Ah, fuck all goddamned motherfucking cunts!_

_The fucking shitting battle—_

            “I SAID,” Mrs. Bones shrieked, “WE’RE HERE TO PROTEST THIS FILTHY PLAY!”

            Loser stopped short in the middle of his dramatic diatribe and turned to Dumbledore, unsure if he should continue.

            “You said that twice already, sweetie pie,” Dumbledore told Mrs. Bones. “Now keep protesting, but try not to disturb us—we’re practicing.” He waved at Loser to continue.

 

**_(OLI:)_ **

_The fucking shitting battle turned tits up_

_And my men beat a cowardly retreat_

_Back towards the forest. How now could they call_

_Themselves brave men when all they are is pussies?_

            “The language in this play is appalling!” Mrs. Abbot said, joining an irate Mrs. Bones. “I counted nine profanities just now!”

            “There’s over five hundred in the entire play,” Dumbledore told her as a matter of trivia. “Including one hundred sixty-eight uses of the word _fuck_ and twenty-seven uses of the word _cunt_.”

            Mrs. Abbot’s eyes ballooned in horror. _“You use the C-word??”_ She gasped, her horror so great that she was in danger of hyperventilating. “That’s the worst word ever created! You’re sexist Dumbledore—a sexist, perverted pig!”

            “I find nothing at all sexist about the word _cunt_ ,” Connie said, wrapping her arms around Dumbledore’s chest and giving his nipples a surreptitious squeeze. “My second husband used it all the time—in a voice seeping with love and reverence—and far from offending me, it turned me on.”

            Mrs. Brown stalked to the forefront and glared at the ancient lady. “Your _second_ husband! So, Dumbledore, not only have you written a filthy play, but now you’re frolicking around with a scarlet woman. What a horrid example for the kids!”

            “I resent that!” Connie cried. “Let’s do a show of hands: How many of _you_ are still in your first marriage?” The women backed away fearfully and shamefully, muttering to themselves. Only a few raised their hands, and even then not all of them were being truthful.

            “Just as I thought. Now be quiet and let Dumbledore continue the practice.”

            No one could say Connie didn’t have a good point. However, few people enjoy being reprimanded, and the parents were no exception. They seemed to forget that Connie had the monopoly on age and experience, but you couldn’t really blame them for this oversight, as dealing with Dumbledore had put them off of old people forever. Anyhow, they marched up to the stage, each of them fuming, and purposely blocked the set, effectively stopping the practice.

            “I must ask you to leave the stage,” Dumbledore said calmly as he trailed behind them. “I know you’re upset about the language, but this is just being ridiculous.”

            The parents ignored him. Mrs. Bones marched straight up to Loser and said, her voice oozing with way too much sympathy, “I’m so sorry Dumbledore has put you through this, young man. You know it’s wrong to swear like he’s made you.”

            She was barely a foot away from his face, so Loser took an uncomfortable step backward. “Actually,” he said slowly, weighing each word, “the language is… part of the character. It’s, um, supposed to… er, be like that.”

            “I know he made you say that,” Mrs. Bones cooed softly. “You don’t have to pretend around me.”

            “I’m not pretending, though!” Loser said quickly. “I really like this play! I like being a battle hero and… and saying all the lines, swear words and all.”

            “I understand,” Mrs. Bones whispered, just loudly enough that everyone heard her. “Dumbledore’s going to make sure you fail all your classes if you say any differently.”

            “He’s not like that!” Loser protested. “Dumbledore’s a good man. A little, uh, weird sometimes, but he’s got us working hard on the play, and we’re learning a lot. I swear, we want to be doing this!” Behind him, Harry coughed surreptitiously, making it known that _he_ didn’t want any part in the play. The parents turned about to find the source of this noise.

            “Why look, it’s Harry Potter!” Mrs. Patil squealed gleefully. The other parents perked up in interest and looked around for the boy hero. When they saw him, they, too, made noises of glee.

            “So you’re part of the play, too, Harry?” Mrs. Bones said eagerly. “How do you like it? Or do you not like it?”

            Harry turned several shades of red and tried to back away from the forty-nine mothers who had just turned into overage fan girls.

            “Is he making you do things you don’t want to do?” Mrs. Abercrombie asked him.

            “My son Colin’s told me so much about you!” Mrs. Creevey said in earnest. “He’s a good friend of yours, isn’t he? Could I please have your autograph? Here, I have a pen and some Post-it notes.”

            The double doors to the Great Hall banged open once more, and one lone woman entered the room. It was Loser’s mother—Ivana the Tampon Lady. Her entrance had obviously been carefully planned, but it made it no less effective. Dumbledore went unnaturally still, and Loser’s eyes widened with horror. Connie wrinkled her nose in distaste, and the other students just stood around uncomfortably. The parents, however, seemed invigorated by the sight of their leader, and they stood a little straighter.

            “Forget Harry Potter,” Ivana said coldly. “He is negligible.” Her strides were long and quick, and her heels clicked madly against the floor. In a minute she had ascended the stage and stood barely an arm’s length away from her son. Loser cowered under her fierce gaze, his lip trembling.

            “I was listening to every word you said,” she told him, her voice hard and unforgiving, “and I must admit that I have never been more ashamed in my entire life. How could you defend that horrid man you call your headmaster? How could you _ever_ say that you like to swear? There is no excuse for what Dumbledore has done, and there is no excuse for what _you_ have done just now.”

            “M-M-M-Mum…” Loser whimpered, his eyes swimming with tears.

            “You have betrayed me, Clifford,” she said coldly. “You have become corrupt and failed me as a son.”

            “B-bu-b-bu-b-but—” Loser stammered.

            “Dumbledore may have bullied you into this, but there is no excuse to play along with him. I would rather have a son that fails all his classes than a son that swears even once.”

            “I-I-I-I’m s-s-sorry…”

            “Say: _It was wrong of me to swear._ ”

            “I-it w-w-w-was wrong of m-me t-t-t-t-t-to sw-w-w-w-wear.”

            “Say: _Dumbledore is evil, and he must be stopped._ ”

            “M-m-mum!” Loser’s eyes swirled frantically in desperation, first looking at the crowd of students and parents (all of who were too thoroughly engrossed in this melodrama), then at Dumbledore (who for once looked somber), then finally and briefly at his mother.

            “Say: _Dumbledore is evil, and he must be stopped._ ”

            “I-I can’t!”

            “Say it!” She advanced on her son, and he let out a yelp.

            “D-D-Dumbledore is e-e-e-evil!” Loser shrieked, stuttering at a rapid-fire pace. “A-a-a-a-and he m-m-m-must be st-st-stopped!”

            “I know, son,” Ivana said softly. “He must.”

            The silence that followed was deafening. The mothers nodded in agreement with Ivana, sympathetic in that a mother would have to deal with such a wayward child. The students gaped wordlessly at Loser and his mum, fervently thanking God that they never had a parent like Ivana. Dumbledore kept his face impassively blank and didn’t react at all.

            It was too much for Loser. He burst into tears and fled the Great Hall.

            Ivana watched him go, her face twisted slightly in aversion. Then she turned to Dumbledore and said, “We will be taking this matter to the school board, you mark my words!”

            And with that, she motioned for the parents to follow her, and they all left the hall.

 

**********

 

            Ron recruited Ginny, borrowed Harry’s Marauders’ Map, and found Loser holed up in some broom closet near the top of the Astronomy Tower, curled amongst the mops and brooms with his knees drawn up to his chest. The two Weasleys knelt down beside the despondent boy, not speaking but still giving him their silent sympathy.

            “H-h—” Loser hiccuped. “How can I go back now?” he whispered hoarsely. “Dumbledore must hate me.”

            “He’s forgiven much worse,” Ginny promised him. “Besides, he knows you didn’t really mean it. Your mum was just making you say it.”

            “That’s another thing!” Loser cried. “I thought I was getting better, but I’m not!”

            “For every few steps you take forward, there’s always the step back,” Ron told Loser bracingly. “With time, your steps forward will far surpass your steps backward, and you’ll be a better person.”

            “No, I won’t!” Loser insisted frantically. “Not when my mum is still around. She’s someone that I can never change for, and I know even if I tried that she’d do everything to stop me. So I still stutter around her. I still can’t form my own opinion when she’s in the room. I’m still a complete and utter pussy around her!

“I thought I was changing, but I’m not. I’m still the Loser I’ve always been.”

 

~~~~~

 

            “Thinking about Ginny?”

            Luna appeared behind Harry and followed his gaze, which was fixed on the double doors of the Great Hall. Ron and Ginny had just ran through them a minute earlier in search of Loser. “Yes,” Harry said simply.

            “And just what are you thinking?”

            “That she’s not a bad person,” Harry said slowly. “She fights for what she believes in, and she does a darn good job of it, too. She helps those who desperately need it, and she knows just the way to get them back on their feet. She’s smart. She’s a good sister. And a heck of a lot of other things as well. It’d take too long to name all her positive traits.”

            “I agree,” Luna said. “Ginny is a good person.”

            “And it’s wrong of me to do this,” Harry pressed onward.

            “To do what?” Luna said, though she knew what he was talking about.

            “To start a romance with you when I’m still her boyfriend. We’ll never work as a couple, her and I, but that doesn’t mean I can disrespect her by starting an affair behind her back.”

            “Do you regret kissing me?” Luna asked his calmly.

            “No. But I can’t kiss you again. Not yet, at least.”

            “I’ll wait,” Luna promised. “That’s what you want, I presume.”

            “I’m sorry about putting your through all this,” Harry said earnestly. “I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

            “Don’t be sorry,” Luna told him. “I’m not.” She placed her finger to her lips and touched his cheek. Then she skipped off to the backstage, humming softly to herself.

 

**********

 

            That night, McGonagall and Snape were in Dumbledore’s office, both under the pretense of getting advice on their curriculum, but in reality they wanted to ask the headmaster about a matter that didn’t involve their coursework at all. They entered the office within two minutes of each other, around 7:00. But Dumbledore was busy entertaining Connie in his private quarters, and they didn’t come out for over another hour. When they finally did come out, he was dressed in a ridiculous military costume that made both McGonagall and Snape blink twice before opening their mouths to speak.

            Dumbledore beat them to the punch. Before they could get a word in edgewise, he grinned at Connie and said, “You know, military time is the niftiest thing ever. Instead of the stopped clock being right twice a day, it’s only right once a day, and whenever you ask for the time, you never have to ask whether it’s A.M. or P.M.”

            “Albus, what did the parents want?” McGonagall and Snape both asked at the same time.

            “Oh, them,” Dumbledore wrinkled his nose. “They were just being meanies, weren’t they, Connie?”

            “You bet,” Connie agreed. “They were pitching a hissy fit over a few _fucks_ and _cunts_.”

            McGonagall and Snape blinked twice more as they tried to figure out what Connie just said. “Sorry?” the Transfiguration teacher whispered, unable to stop herself from sounding a little offended.

            “ _Fucks_ and _cunts_ ,” Connie repeated. “You know, the language. They thought the play had too much of it.”

            Snape frowned intensely. “Albus, you’ve got to be more careful than this. If you offend those parents badly enough, they could get you suspended from your position as headmaster.”

            “Ah, they’re just being a bunch of smelly old buttcheeks,” Dumbledore insisted. “I’ll get them around to my way of thinking by the time this play opens.”

            “How do you propose to do that?” McGonagall asked grumpily. “There’s more than just the language that’s at issue. Next they’ll be complaining about the sexual content.”

            “I’m sure,” Dumbledore sniffed. “What prudes they all are.”

            “Why do you feel the need to pack your play so full of graphic sexual content, anyway?” Snape wondered aloud. “Are you merely a sex maniac, or are you trying to compensate for the fact that you haven’t done it in years? When was the last time you had sex, anyway?”

            This was an entirely rhetorical question, but Snape was immediately sorry for having asked it, because Dumbledore wasted no time in answering. “1959,” he said.

            “Oh.” Snape said shortly, surprised at the bluntness. He did some counting on his fingers, then raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that’s farther back than I expected.”

            “Mmm, I don’t know,” Dumbledore said glancing up at the clock on his wall as he plucked at the badge on his military uniform. “It’s only 2025 right now.”

            Two seconds later, McGonagall and Snape understood what Dumbledore was saying. With a lot of squawking and shrieking, they left the office in a huff and refused to speak to either him or Connie the next day.

 

**********

 

            Meanwhile, down in the Slytherin Common Room, Pansy sat next to Gregory Goyle. They sat alone together, as Draco and Crabbe were doing homework in the dormitories, while Gregory and Pansy had finished long ago.

            “So,” Pansy said, “you’re smart, Gregory. You keep it well hidden, but you know a lot.”

            “Yes,” Gregory said. “What do you want?”

            “A sexual position,” Pansy replied. “I want something to keep my relationship with Draco fresh.”

            Gregory didn’t bother to tell her how pointless her efforts were. He tried once in the past, but she had gone mysteriously deaf and refused to talk to him for a week. So he merely sighed and said, “Let him cum in your hair.”

            “What?” Pansy said, startled at the idea. “That’s sick!”

            “Not as sick as you pooping in his mouth,” Gregory said. “Look, I’ve given you guys all the regular positions and all the irregular ones, too. All that’s left are the fetishes. If you want to keep your relationship going, it’ll have to run on perversion. I pray to Merlin that it’ll keep you going up until you realize.”

            “Until I realize what?” Pansy said quickly.

            “Nothing,” Gregory sighed loudly. “I’m going to bed.” And he did.

            Pansy remained in the Common Room, her face smiling but her eyes empty of any happiness. She knew what Gregory was talking about, and he was wrong about one thing: She already _did_ realize it. There was no way to keep her relationship with Malfoy “fresh.” He wasn’t in love with her, and now that she actually thought about it, she wasn’t in love with him, either. It was hard to say when exactly their relationship had become official—it was a gradual thing throughout Third Year and Fourth Year. They had meaningful conversations that led way to meaningful touches, and before Pansy could talk stock of where things stood, they were boyfriend and girlfriend. But it wasn’t hard to say when things started going wrong. Sometime after Draco started having sex with Pansy, he began to distance himself from her. They walked to classes together and spent more than a few nights together in his four-poster bed, but he had stopped their conversations, and he never smiled around her any more. He had long since grown tired of her, but for some reason he kept her around. They tried new things in bed all the time, but the moment Draco seemed to perfect a certain technique he never used it again.

             At least, not on her.

            Days earlier, the doubt had formed in her mind. Now it wasn’t doubt that flourished, but a plan. She wasn’t going to lie to herself any longer: She would find out exactly what was going on in the daily life of Draco Malfoy.


	15. Draco Cheater

            The idea was disgusting. Pansy hated it with all her heart, and she swore never to do it again, but she decided to go through with it—just once, and then no more! Mere minutes after Goyle suggested the fetish, she traipsed saucily into Draco’s room and passed along the idea. So Draco whipped out his penis and gave it a few pumps to get it hard, upon which he let Pansy guide the throbbing instrument to the side of her head. She swathed it in her silky black hair, and after a few minutes of fiddling around, she felt the hot liquid blast her scalp. It was a queer sort of feeling, and surprisingly, the tingling that it incited at the base of her hairs aroused her immensely.  So she pulled her face out of Draco’s thighbone and breathlessly asked him to bring her off with his mouth or at least his finger, but he refused.

            “I’m tired, now,” he whined. “Go to bed.” And he pulled back the curtain and pushed her, protesting, off the side of his four-poster. Britney the cat ambled over to sniff at the semen that filled Pansy’s hair, but the angry witch pushed her away and ran from the room, hot and bothered and angrily rubbing at her sticky head.

            Thankfully, Pansy hadn’t removed any of her clothes during the sexual escapade, so she was able to get from Draco’s dormitory to hers without causing any commotion amongst the Slytherins who still wandered the halls. Once inside her room, she flopped onto her bed, drew the curtain, whipped her wand from her pocket, shoved it straight up her skirt, and cast a buzzing charm. At this moment, her wand wasn’t as thick as she would like—but then again, her dildo was a lot deeper in her trunk than she would like, and she didn’t feel like rooting through piles of books and trash to get to it. So she made do with the wand, while at the same time rubbing Draco’s semen into her scalp. She pulled her hand away from her head so she could sniff the sex juices, and her hair followed in a trail of stickiness. The pungent odor flew up her nostrils and sent her other hand deeper up her skirt in an effort to connect the head of her wand with the tip of her clitoris. It worked, and in a few seconds she came.

            After the fireworks and the heavy breathing, Pansy sagged back against the headboard and sighed. Suddenly she was as grossed out by the idea of semen in her hair as she had been when Gregory suggested it. Semen smelled so good when her vagina was begging for some, but after her clitoris was satisfied, the musk of spooj was repugnant. It smelled like old pancake batter, and it was a hell of a lot messier. It took her three tries to pull her cum-begrimed hair away from her palms, and afterwards the semen congealed in milky-white glops throughout her beautiful black tresses.

            “Fuck,” she griped as she heaved herself out of her bed. She went to the bathroom and washed her hands with extra soap. Then she started pulling the semen from her hair.

            It took way too long. After five minutes, she transferred herself from the sink to the shower, and she spent another fifteen minutes leading the stubborn globules down the strands of her long locks and off the ends. Once she was pretty sure she had taken care of her hair, she washed it with extra shampoo and conditioner. Then she stopped the water and toweled herself dry. When she went to hang up her towel, she found to her dismay that two tiny balls of semen clung to its purple surface. Close scrutiny in the mirror showed three more specks of the offending substance in her damp hair. Growling to herself, she painstakingly pulled out the last bits of cum, one after the other, and stomped off to bed.

 

**********

 

            Wouldn’t you know it, but the next day Draco asked Pansy if he could cum in her hair again—twice!—once before breakfast, and once right after classes. Pansy acquiesced with ill grace, and Draco eagerly milked the semen into her scalp. Then he watched in especial amusement as Pansy tried to pull the sticky strands out of her dark locks. He asked her to eat one, but she refused. Britney, however, proved herself more than willing by hopping into Pansy’s lap and lapping hungrily as she lifted her tail and exhibited her quivering privates. This time, Pansy wasn’t aroused at all. However, she allowed the cat to clear up the remaining semen, as it seemed to be doing a better job than she ever could.

            Much to Pansy’ relief, Draco didn’t ask to cum in her hair that night. Nor did he ask the next morning. In fact, he seemed to have mysteriously forgotten that he had even heard of the hair-cumming fetish in the first place.

            _He feels that he’s practiced it enough,_ Pansy thought bitterly. _So now he’s going to try it on another girl. And I’m determined to catch him in the act._

 

**********

            “You suggested it, I’m guessing,” Draco said to Gregory as they put on their costumes. It was Wednesday afternoon, and they were in the dressing rooms at the beginning of play practice.

            “Suggested what?”

            “Me cumming in Pansy’s hair.”

            “Oh, yeah,” Gregory said. “Yeah. Did you like it?”

            “Fuck, yes!” Draco breathed heavily. “Fucking Merlin, it was the kinkiest thing I’ve ever done…! No… wait, the kinkiest thing I’ve ever done and _enjoyed_.” He obviously hadn’t forgotten about the poop incident.

            “So it’s going to become a regular thing between the two of you, I suppose,” Gregory said, a little shrewdly. “I’m going to have to put up with her barging into the dormitory every night so you can glue her hair together with your cum, and then I’ll have to sit on my bed and listen to her grunts of frustration as tries to pull it all off her scalp. Gee, I’m really looking forward to it.”

            “Are you crazy?” Draco said, waving a hand at his friend. “I’m not scalp-fucking her again tonight. Nah, I’m going after someone else.”

            “Oh, one of those things again,” Gregory said with a sigh. He was done putting on his costume, but he still hung behind as Draco did up his boots. “Who’s the lucky girl this time?”

            “Guess.”

            “Trelawney.”

            “No, I don’t want to risk grossing her out—I’m having much too fun with her falling in love with me.”

            “Okay, I give up.”

            Draco finished putting on his boots, but they stayed behind anyway. “You fucking loser,” he snorted, “giving up so easily. C’mon, think! I’m going to be _cumming_ into someone’s _hair_.”

            “Yeah…” Gregory said, waving at Draco to continue. “I know that already.”

            “The more hair, the better it is when the semen comes out.”

            “I suppose. I’ve never tried it.”

            “Believe me, it’ll be better with more hair,” Draco said, grinning. “If Pansy had a hard time picking it out, just wait until _she_ … Ah, but you don’t know who _she_ is, do you?”

            “I would if you told me,” Gregory said only somewhat patiently.

            “I just said it: I want more hair… Who has the biggest head of hair in the school?”

            “Uh… Dumbledore?”

            Draco tutted in annoyance. “ _Besides_ Dumbledore. Just a hint: it’s a _she_ —not a _he_ —with a head like a _bush_.”

            Gregory’s eyes widened. “You _can’t_ mean…!”

            “You bet,” Draco said smugly, striking a haughty pose. “I’m going to scalp-fuck Hermione Granger.”

            The other actors had finished dressing and left the room, so the place was silent. Gregory’s jaw didn’t exactly drop, but rather his mouth opened slowly as he stared, disbelieving, at his best friend. He had known Draco to go to all sorts of extreme lengths to get sexual thrills: that he would actually agree to let Pansy poop in his mouth proved that very point. That he would chase after Euan Abercrombie proved the point even more. That he would even seriously consider fucking Trelawney, not to mentioned going through with it, well…! Goyle hoped it would never go farther than that.

            But chasing after _Hermione Granger?_ Draco hated Hermione, and he always had. To him, she was the Mudblood who upstaged him in front of his teachers and his once-unjailed father. To him, she was yet another Gryffindor who he couldn’t stand and who, in turn, couldn’t stand him. To him, she was a battle hero who had fought for her life and the lives of her friends when he was busy hiding in his dormitory. She was everything he hated, and she would probably say the same about him. And he actually wanted to chase after her!

            And for what? Because she had a huge hairdo in which he wanted to cum. For some reason, Gregory didn’t find that a good enough reason for Draco to go after Hermione. And he decided he’d say so.

            “Look, Draco,” Goyle began. “This is… totally insane. Hermione is… she’s… Ah, fuck it.” He decided to shut up. There was no way he was going to change the mind of an already-convinced kink freak. Draco’s heart (or perhaps just his cock) was set on Hermione Granger, and all Gregory could do was bunker down and wait for the whole fiasco to blow over.

            “Glad you see things my way,” Draco grinned. “Now let’s go out and practice, and watch me woo Hermione with my charm! No girl has yet been able to withstand it, and I don’t intend for her to be the first.”

            And Draco traipsed from the dressing room, leaving Goyle sitting shell-shocked and alone on one of the benches against the wall. He brushed against a cloak that hung on its rack, and it fell silently to the floor.

            _You know what?_ He thought. _I_ don’t _want to bunker down and wait for this to blow over. Hermione doesn’t deserve to be used like this, and I’m not going to let Draco do it._

            Suddenly and decisively, he stood up and marched from the dressing room. Out on the stage Dumbledore was choreographing a battle scene with Loser and some blood-bespattered extras. Hermione gabbled with Harry and Ron, while Draco sulked a few feet behind them. Apparently he had tried to chat up Hermione and had been thoroughly rebuffed.

            _The question is,_ Goyle thought, _how do I separate her from her friends without Draco seeing me?_ He thought hard for a quick moment, then ducked into the makeup station situated between the two dressing rooms.

            Just as he surmised, Ginny was in there, busily rearranging the makeup. Goyle hastened to her side and said, “Uh…”

            Ginny started in shock. She turned around and started again. “Goyle!” she gasped. “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

            “Uh… makeup,” Goyle said.

            She sighed, longsuffering, and motioned to one of the stools that lined the makeup counter. “Sit down, then.”

            “First get Hermione in here,” Gregory said. “And make it fast.”

            “What? Why?” Ginny’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion and mistrust.

            “It’s an emergency. There’s a problem that needs ameliorating, and I need to tell Hermione about it immediately. Please, just trust me. And if you don’t, just remember that I’m not stupid enough to cross the smartest witch and the most dangerous witch in the school at the same time.”

            “Uh…” Ginny clearly didn’t know what to say. Not only was Goyle, a Slytherin, asking urgently to speak to her best friend, but he was also using a vocabulary that extended beyond one-syllable grunts. _And_ he was claiming not to be stupid.

            “Go!” Goyle shooed her from the room, and she quickly ran out onto the stage. He retreated back to the makeup counter, hoping that Draco never noticed him go in here.

            Ginny returned a minute later with Hermione. The bushy-haired brunette looked a lot more worried than the redhead, who simply looking confused. Hermione strode over to the makeup station and sat down beside Goyle, and Ginny tiptoed over and quietly began to powder Goyle’s face.

            “What is it, Gregory?” Hermione asked. Ginny dropped the brush, and it tinkled against the stone floor.

            “You called him Gregory!” Ginny gasped.

            “I needed to warn you,” Gregory said, “that Malfoy is _dead set_ on cumming in your hair.”

            This time Ginny dropped the powder, and it crashed to the ground, turning the stones white and raising a small cloud around their ankles.

            Hermione’s jaw didn’t drop, nor did her mouth open, but her eyebrows disappeared behind her bangs, and she stared at Goyle, as clearly disbelieving as he had been earlier. “Malfoy wants to cum in my _hair?_ Awful specific, isn’t he?”

            “Yeah,” Gregory said apologetically. “He’s like that.”

            “What’s next, Draco the Sadean Libertine?” Hermione said wonderingly, shaking her head. “Maybe tomorrow he’ll be asking little girls to vomit in his mouth, then chase it down with an enema out their arses.”

            Ginny made a strangled gasp that sounded a bit like “ _EEP,”_ but when Goyle turned around to see how she was holding up, she had disappeared entirely.

            He turned back to Hermione and grinned. “I think you’re my hero. I never thought I’d ever meet another person who’s read Marquis de Sade.”

            “Mmm, I don’t know,” Hermione said casually. “I’ll bet you ten galleons that Dumbledore’s read it, too.”

            “And I will _not_ take you up on that bet,” Gregory replied, “because you’re probably right.”

            “Back to the Malfoy hair fetish thing,” Hermione said. “Why are you telling me?”

            Gregory shifted nervously on the stool. “Well, partly because I don’t believe anyone should be submitted to that indignity—least of all you. And also because, well, I think it’s kinda my fault.”

            “How in Merlin’s name is it your fault?” Hermione asked. “You aren’t egging him on, are you?”

            “Well, no,” Gregory said slowly, “but I suggested the fetish to Pansy, who in turn did it with Draco, who now wants to try it out on a fresh batch of girls. Damn, I really should drop him! I don’t know why he’s my best friend—he’s such a chauvinist pig and a cheater, too. If he’s so disloyal to Pansy, how do I know that he won’t turn on me, too? I wish I wouldn’t stand for it, but, well… I do. Huh, it’s probably because he’s my only friend.” He sighed softly and beat the counter absently with his fist.

            “Hey, I’m your friend, too,” Hermione said softly. “A very, very new friend, but I’m still a friend. And I don’t blame you for Draco’s stupid ideas.”

            “Thanks,” Gregory said sincerely but dejectedly.

            “The only question is, what’s the best way to resist him and keep him away permanently? Do you think Pansy could hold him back?”

            Gregory shrugged. “I doubt it,” he said honestly, “but we could try.”

            Pansy was neither part of the cast nor crew, so Gregory and Hermione had to get through the play practice despite their agitation. The second Dumbledore let them leave, Hermione headed for the library while Gregory swung by the Slytherin dormitories to fetch Pansy.

            “Pansy, I need your help with something,” Gregory said when he met her in her room. “It’s about Draco.”

            She stood in front of her mirror, doing up her hair. “Does it have anything to do with the poor girl he plans to scalp-fuck?”

            “What?” Gregory said, shocked at Pansy’s sudden intuition. “So you _did_ realize? How did you—?”

            “How did I know?” Pansy asked as she turned around to face Goyle, her face twisted in a tightly controlled fury. “How did I _not_ know? Tell the girl that there’s no way she can keep Draco off of her because he’s a complete sex freak and I don’t fucking care anymore!”

            “What?” Gregory said again, slapping himself mentally for sounding so dumb.

            “No, wait, take me to her,” Pansy said, suddenly changing her tone. “She might as well know that she’ll never get to feel Draco’s warm semen against her scalp. It’ll be disappointing, I’m sure, but not nearly as disappointing as when I interrupt them before Draco comes off.”

            “So…” Gregory said softly. “So you knew that Draco was cheating on you?”

            “Sure I know,” Pansy said bitterly. “I just don’t know how long and with how many girls.”

            Gregory took a deep breath and let it out again. “The girl’s in the library, by the way. Let’s get going. And as for Draco’s cheating habits… you don’t want to know.”

            “Yes, I do,” Pansy said calmly and coldly. They left her dormitory and strode through the Common Room, and Gregory tried to string enough “ers” and “ums” together to get them out into the hall before dropping the bombshell.

            “How long it’s been going on, you wanted to know? I’d say… about three years. Ever since you two got together.”

            “What the _FUCK?”_ Pansy yelled, stopping dead in her tracks. “Ever since we… Goyle, tell me you’re fucking joking!”

            “Uh, I’m sorry,” Gregory whispered. “I truly am.”

            “Ever since we got togeth—?” she whipped her head away from Goyle, her fists clenched painfully tight. “Fuck him, fuck him, _fuck_ him!”

            “Look, it’s not because you’re bad or anything,” Gregory said quickly. “I swear, none of it’s your fault. You were a really good girlfriend!”

            “Of course I was!” Pansy shouted tragically. “I did everything he told me to, I agreed to all his stupid ideas, I left him alone when he wanted to be alone, when I _really_ wanted to spend more time to get to know him better! I let him cum in my fucking _hair_ , for Merlin’s cunting sake! I took a shit in his mouth! I was a cunting _whore_ for him!”

            She took a deep shuddering breath, and Goyle took the break in her raging to lay a hand on her shoulder and whisper a meek, “I’m sorry.”

            “Not as sorry as I am!” Pansy snarled. “When I catch him in the act, he’s going to _pay!_ I’ll have him crying so hard he’ll squirt tears out his arse.”

            They began walking again, Pansy still breathing heavily. After a few more hallways, she asked, “How many?”

            “How many… people has he been with?” Gregory said, drawing out each word in order to delay the inevitable. “While he was with you, you mean?” He began counting in his head, which took another minute and another hallway. The longer he took, the more sour Pansy looked.

            “I’d say at least, um, twelve,” Gregory said. “Wait… no, yeah. Twelve boys. There’s no way I can count all the girls.”

            Pansy stopped again, took out her wand, and, yelling inarticulately, slashed a curse at a nearby statue of a nude Roman god. What had been a crowning achievement of Renaissance sculpture just moments before was now a fine pile of dust. Pansy whirled to face Goyle, who backed away quickly and fearfully. She looked ready to yell at him some more, but when she opened her mouth, no sound came out. She turned away from him and began walking rapidly in the direction of the library.

            “Pansy?” Gregory cried, running to keep up. “Pansy, are you okay?”

            “I’m not going to say a fucking word,” Pansy replied fiercely, her voice low, “because there isn’t a word in the entire dictionary that could describe how utterly _not_ okay I feel right now.”

            And that was that. She didn’t speak again until they reached the library, and Gregory didn’t even think about _wanting_ to think about forcing her.

            They entered the library, and Gregory saw Hermione right off, sitting by herself at a table, working diligently on her Arithmancy project. She looked up and waved when he came in with Pansy.

            _“Granger?”_ Pansy cried, dodging the Silencing Spell that Madam Pince cast at her. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with him?”

            “Ssssshhh!” Hermione said quickly, running over to the two of them. “Madam Pince’ll have our necks if we don’t keep it down.”

            So they ran down the shelves to a more secluded portion of the library, a part away from the students and away from Madam Pince’s interference. They found a quiet spot between the 1300’s Botany shelf and the Dangerous Creatures shelf, and they all took a seat on the cold wood floor.

            “Are you going to protect me from Malfoy?” Hermione asked Pansy, her tone frosty but businesslike.

            “So you _don’t_ want him to cum in your hair?” Pansy said, her voice laden with sarcasm.

            “I’d rather keep my head semen-free.”

            “I wonder why,” Pansy said delicately. “I think it might be the first thing to actually keep your hair down.”

            “Har har,” Hermione said, scowling at the Slytherin girl. “Malfoy is actively trying to squirt his seed all over my head. Now is _not_ the time for jokes.”

            Goyle leaned forward and waved his arms, trying to calm them down. “C’mon now, let’s all get along,” he entreated. “We all have a problem with this matter, and I think it’d be best if we worked together to fix it.”

            “ _Fix_ it!” Pansy half-laughed, half-sobbed. “My boyfriend is changing girls like he’s changing underwear! Tell me how exactly I can fix that, and I’ll give you an Order of Merlin.”

            “Okay, so you can’t fix it,” Gregory conceded with a sigh. “But you’re going to catch him red-handed and break up with him.”

            “Red-handed?” Hermione scoffed. “Try red-cocked.”

            “Right,” Pansy said sourly. “Here’s the deal, Granger. If you so desperately want Draco off your back, you have to help us.”

            “Us?” Goyle said in alarm.

            “Yeah, you’re helping me, too,” Pansy snapped at him.

            “Can’t I just tell Malfoy where to shove it?” Hermione asked, crossing her arms.

            “Sure you can,” Pansy agreed. “But he’s fucking persistent, and after six or seven times you’ll get awfully tired of him.”

            “But what if I don’t want to help you?” Hermione sniffed. “I don’t fancy coming to the aid of someone who’s been calling me Mudblood for the past seven years.”

            “Gregory’s been the doing the same thing, and you don’t seem to mind helping him!” Pansy said defensively.

            “No, he hasn’t,” Hermione disagreed. “All he did was grunt and guffaw.”

            “You just like him because he’s smart!” Pansy accused, pointing her finger at the bushy-haired Gryffindor. “If he didn’t know so damn much, you wouldn’t have made friends with him!”

            “You say that like it’s a bad thing!” Gregory and Hermione said at the same time. Pansy rolled her eyes and scowled.

            For a second the three of them didn’t say anything. Pansy fumed to herself, and Hermione glared at her defiantly, so Gregory took it upon himself to break the silence. “Look, guys, we’ve had our differences in the past—a buttload of them, too—but now’s the time to work together and get what we want. I mean, we’re all of age.”

            “And we should act like it,” Hermione said, snapping into her businesslike tone again. “You’re right, Gregory.” She turned primly to Pansy and said, “All right, then, Parkinson, I’ll help you out, if you promise to keep your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend off of me. But I’m not doing this out of charity—it’s strictly business.”

            “I’m perfectly aware of that, Granger,” Pansy replied coolly. “Don’t forget that I’m a Slytherin, and I don’t give or take anything for free. Now let’s cut to the chase and go over the plan.”

 

**********

 

            That evening at dinner, Gregory Goyle took a seat beside Draco Malfoy and dished himself some roasted chicken, red potatoes, and asparagus. He then turned to Draco and asked, “Where’s Pansy?”

            “She said she wasn’t hungry,” came the reply. “Probably she’s on another diet again. Huh, she thinks getting skinnier will make me like her more! Girls crack me up sometimes.”

            “Haha,” Gregory said bleakly. “Speaking of girls, guess what I found out?”

            “That you are one?”

            “Very funny,” Goyle said sarcastically, flicking a bit of potato at his blond-haired friend. It missed. “No, I was talking with Hermione today, and she said she was spending all evening studying in the Restricted Section of the library.”

            “The Restricted Section?” Malfoy said, raising his eyebrows. “What for?”

            “Technically, it’s for her Arithmancy project,” Gregory said, “but let’s face it: The teachers love her so much that she could _live_ in the Restricted Section and they wouldn’t stop her.”

            “So why are you telling me all this?” Draco asked before swallowing a forkful of broiled duck.

            “You still want to cum in her hair, don’t you?” Gregory said.

            “Duh,” Draco replied witheringly. “But don’t you realize I can’t just go up to her and bang her scalp? She probably hasn’t even considered doing _normal_ sex with me.”

            “That’s not what I heard,” Gregory said smugly. “The way she was speaking today, you would’ve thought it was her lifelong dream to be taken from behind and in front and on top and everywhere else by the sex god Draco Malfoy.”

            “Did she say anything about cumming in her hair, though?” Draco said. “I’ll bet she didn’t!”

            “Actually, she reads the same books I read,” Gregory said, “so she knows about the hair cumming fetish. And she’s actively searching for someone who’s willing to try it with her.”

            “ _Wow,_ ” Malfoy whispered, his eyes suddenly going wide at the thought. He massaged his crotch absently and said, his voice husky, “So… all evening, you said?”

            “She’ll be there,” Goyle promised. “I suppose, though, you’ll want your usual warm-up?”

            “But of course,” Draco replied. And he finished his dinner in record time.

            Two minutes later, Gregory excused himself from the table and strode quickly out of the Great Hall. Pansy was waiting just outside the double doors, her eyes glinting like ice. “He took the bait,” he told her.

            “And I’ve got the Invisibility Cloak,” Pansy said, only betraying an emotion of severe determination. She turned over to one of the statues in the Entrance Hall and waved, and Luna Lovegood and Harry Potter scuttled out from behind it. Hermione had agreed to the plan only on the condition that Harry would help mediate the more extreme aspects, and Luna happened to be around when they offered him his part in the plot. So here they all were, and here was the Invisibility Cloak, tucked firmly under Harry’s arm.

            “I don’t need it,” Harry told them. “I learned a spell for the final battle that can turn me invisible. Dumbledore himself taught it to me.”

            “Before he started going crazy, I hope,” Pansy said dryly.

            “Dumbledore’s very intelligent,” Luna said, mildly insistent. “He knows some powerful magic.”

            “It doesn’t make him any less loony,” Pansy replied with a sneer. Obviously the topic of Dumbledore only exacerbated her bad mood.

            Goyle felt the need to interrupt in order to head off an argument. “So Pansy will take the Invisibility Cloak, Harry will use his spell, and Luna and I will follow at a distance.

            “The Cockmice will help us,” Luna said assuredly as she twirled a lock of her hair around her pinkie.

            “There are no such things,” Pansy snapped.

            “They’re infinitesimal beings that float free through the air around us,” Luna told Gregory while ignoring Pansy. “When they smell semen, they become excited, and if you listen hard enough you can hear their whispers as they pass along a chain of directions to the nearest buildup.”

            “Uh, okay,” Gregory said politely. “Whatever you say.” He shot Pansy a quick glare, trying to keep her from asking Luna sarcastic questions. “Pansy, get under the Invisibility Cloak. Harry, use that spell. Luna, you can, um…”

            “I’ll follow the Cockmice,” she replied briskly, “at a distance. You can stay with me, because I doubt the Cloak would fit both you _and_ Pansy.”

            “Right,” Goyle said, a bit doubtfully. “Now let’s hide and wait for Draco to leave the Great Hall.”

            So Pansy slipped on the Invisibility Cloak, and Harry waved his wand and vanished into the still air around them. Goyle and Luna had to make do with ducking behind a statue. There they waited for a boring, uncomfortable minute until the double doors burst open and Draco Malfoy strode through. The blond-haired Slytherin set off down the corridors at an eager pace, casting a few quick grooming spells on himself. He had just finished a Breath-Freshening Charm when he stopped suddenly and entered a deserted room. He put forth a hand to close the door, but Harry, being an expert in invisible maneuvering, put his foot in the way. Draco swung the door closed, but inches away from the jamb it bounced opened again. So Draco tried harder, and once again the door refused to shut. After a few more tries, each more furious than the next, he gave up and went deeper into the empty room.

            Harry and Pansy sneaked in while Goyle and Luna peeked through the cracks between the hinges. One look told them all that the room was not as empty as they had presupposed. A girl was in there—a seventh year with beautiful brown hair and a cold smile. “You wanted to meet me here, Draco?” she asked. The four eavesdroppers tried not to gasp as they realized it was Susan.

            “You bet, my darling,” Draco whispered back. He took her hands gently in his own. “I just wanted to see you again—you know how much I _love_ seeing you.”

            Susan grinned happily, eagerly drinking up the compliment. “You know, Draco Malfoy, I think I like seeing you, too!” she replied, giggling.

            “You should,” Draco replied smoothly as he let his hand travel up her arm. “I can make your entire world, if you’d let me.”

            “Mmm, Draco, I don’t know,” she whispered softly. “I’m with Edmund. I really shouldn’t be doing this.”

            “Hey, if you’re not happy with your boyfriend, you can always break up with him,” Draco said teasingly. Susan managed a half-laugh, and Draco added, “But seriously, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I just want to give you a kiss. A kiss and no more—I promise.”

            Susan flounced a little and said, a bit whiny, “Noooo, Draco. I don’t think I should.” She sounded sorely tempted.

            “C’mon,” Draco coaxed her quietly. “In many cultures, a kiss is a way of greeting. Let’s just pretend we’re greeting each other. I’ll start: _Hello, Susan_.”

            A grin slowly spread across Susan’s face as she replied, “ _Hello, Draco_.”

            “And now,” Draco instructed, “we kiss. Like this.” He then proceeded to greet her with much enthusiasm and lots of tongue. She made a pleased noise in the back of her throat and copied his actions.

            As they continued to kiss, Goyle felt an invisible person breathing on him between the door, and he heard Pansy hiss at him, “What about Hermione?”

            “Just wait,” Goyle whispered uncomfortably. “Draco likes to, er, build himself up before, er…”

            “Right,” Pansy whispered fiercely back.

            Draco broke the kiss. He gazed fondly into Susan’s eyes and said, “Now, my dear, I must leave you.”

            “What?” Susan cried at the sudden end to the kiss and the sudden leave-taking of her new crush. “We only just started.”

            “I _told_ you it’d be no more than a kiss,” Draco said lovingly. “I don’t want to rush things: I want it to be special, for both of us. And I’ve really got to get going, because I told Pansy I’d meet her in five minutes. And you know how ornery that girl can be.”

            Were it not for the plan, Goyle was sure Pansy would have leaped out from under the Cloak and cursed both Draco and Susan into a pile of slimy bits, but she apparently refrained herself, for the room around Draco and Susan remained undisturbed.

            Draco gave Susan one last quick kiss and then ran off. Pansy and Harry followed him closely, while Luna and Goyle trailed at a distance. At one moment Draco disappeared down a hallway, and Gregory was sure they had lost him, but Luna perked up her ears and said, “The Cockmice are going left, towards the Charms corridor.” And she set off at a hopskip, leaving a confused Goyle to follow at a jog.

            Draco met Cho Chang right outside the Charms classroom. She had ditched her school robes and wore a sleeveless top with a jutting neckline and a miniscule skirt that displayed every inch of her gorgeous legs. Draco gave her a quick kiss on the lips and wasted no time in dropping to his knees so as to give those long, tan legs more attention. Whenever his nose tickled the hem of her skirt, it lifted ever so slightly to reveal a sudden flash of racy red underwear. Over around the corner of the hallway, Gregory gaped at the pair, not quite believing Draco’s audacity and feeling more than a bit sorry for Pansy. Draco prattled constantly about his sexual adventures, but for all that talk, Gregory had never actually seen his friend act it out. Most of the time it sounded like exaggeration, but Goyle was dismayed to find out every word of it was true. When Draco tickled the edge of Cho’s panties with his teeth, she moaned and pressed his head harder into her flesh. When he lay a hand on her arse, she leaned into it and ground her buttcheeks into his skillful fingers. These girls threw themselves on Draco and followed along with whatever he wanted to do.

            Somewhere in the kerfluffle, Cho’s underwear disappeared, and the previous flashes of red became flashes of downy black. Gregory forced himself to turn away in order to protect Cho’s dignity, but Luna kept watching curiously, and Draco, completely unaware that any such thing as dignity even existed, buried his face determinedly between the Asian girl’s legs.

            Gregory was too far away to see what exactly Draco was doing to stimulate Cho, but she came a few seconds later. Then Draco made some excuse about having to get back to Pansy, and he parted with declarations of undying life, which Cho stupidly swallowed.

            After this, Draco scampered away towards the library. _Perhaps he’s going to try to scalp-fuck Hermione now_ , Gregory figured as he, Luna, Pansy, and Harry trailed after the Slytherin sex freak. _I hope for Pansy’s sake he is, so she can get this over with._ He was wrong, however. Halfway there, Draco dodged into a supply closet, where an eager Euan Abercrombie was waiting for him. Before Harry could do anything about it, Draco had dragged the boy into the closet and closed the door.

            “Damn it,” Gregory heard him hiss. “Sorry, Parkinson.”

            Pansy didn’t reply; she was probably too upset over the whole ordeal, and Gregory couldn’t blame her. Watching your boyfriend sex up a long line of people in one night couldn’t be high on any girl’s wish list.

            Though they didn’t see anything this time, the four eavesdroppers heard plenty of moaning and sucking, and in a few minutes they heard the little Abercrombie kid cry out in ecstasy. Draco stumbled out of the closet moments later, still gargling a mouthful of semen. He swirled his finger around in his gums and grinned messily.

            _Maybe_ now _he’s going to the library_ , Gregory thought uncomfortably. And, to his eternal relief, he was right.

 

~~~~~

 

            Hermione waited impatiently as the hands on her watch edged towards 7:30. If Gregory had gone to tell Draco about her an hour ago, then he should be here by now. She was eager to get this over with, because she seriously did not find anything exciting about a blond-haired Slytherin trying to cum in her hair. She only hoped Pansy would stop him before he managed to touch her with his—she gritted her teeth at the thought—engorged penis.

            At that moment, Draco came strolling down the aisles, his movements twitchy with excitement and his pants bulging. “So, Granger,” he said without preamble. “I hear… that you’re _interested_ in doing things.”

            “Doing things?” Hermione purred in her best imitation of a seductress. “What, like feeling you make my body wet?”

            “Yes,” Draco said, his breath short. His brain must have clearly been in his penis right then, because Hermione thought she was doing a bad job at her part.

            “Then cum on me,” she said throatily. “Cum _in my hair_.”

            “Okay,” Draco gulped, his stomach drawn in tight and his breath drawn up short.

            The funny thing about miserable experiences is that they seem to take so much longer than they actually do. Draco had his penis out of his trousers in three seconds, but to Hermione it seemed like an age. She saw his finger expertly undo the button, and she saw the reddish-blond pubic hair fluff out as the zipper parted. Then his hands worked his pants slowly down his hips, and out sproinged the monstrous beast. For a second Hermione actually shrunk away from it, so alarmed was she.

            “You like it?” Draco whispered huskily.

            Hermione gulped and whispered, “Do the words _sopping wet pussy_ mean anything to you?”

            Draco grinned and said, “They sure do.”

            _Come here soon, Pansy!_ Hermione pleaded silently. _Please, Pansy, stop your boyfriend before that huge cock of his touches my head!_

            Hermione wanted to look away from the nakedness of her archenemy, but she forced herself not to. It was a magnificent penis to be sure—Ron’s hadn’t been bad at all, but if it had been as big as this, she might have had sex with him before they broke up—but she hated the man attached to it, and thus it lost any glory that it might have gained from its prodigious size. Instead, it looked like a thick hypodermic needle, filled and prepared to stick itself into her and pump her full of fluid. She had already seen more of it than she ever wanted to see.

            “I’m going to cum in that bush of yours!” Draco crooned excitedly, and Hermione knew he was speaking in earnest. A drip shivered unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous head.

            _Pansy!_ Hermione cried mentally. _Please, interrupt this NOW!_

            Draco’s penis was now inches away from her cheek. She put her hair in its line of fire, thus successfully getting her mouth and face out of harm’s way. It didn’t make her feel any safer. She felt a throbbing presence tickle the edge of her bushy brown hair, and she felt like screaming.

            Just as Draco was getting ready to dig his penis into Hermione’s scalp, a sudden noise caused him to stop short. At the same time Pansy jumped out from behind the nearest shelf and cried, triumphantly and tragically, “HA!” Draco gaped at her, his penis still aloft and his face filled with all the guilt of a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. This situation, however, carried much more dire consequences.

            “HA!” Pansy cried again. “This is over, Draco! We’re through!”

            “No, I can explain!” Draco said quickly. “I was helping Hermione with homework, and she needed, um… she needed me to talk about someone I loved—something to do with emotional reaction to spells and her Arithmancy project. So I talked about you, and I got hard thinking about you, and…”

            Pansy reached out and slapped Draco across the face. “You fucking liar,” she snarled. “You hate Hermione even more than you hate me.”

            “He _is_ lying,” Hermione put in sincerely. “He actually wanted to cum in my hair.”

            “No, I didn’t!” Draco insisted.

            Pansy cast a Bludgeoning Hex that sent him reeling into the shelves. “Shut the fuck up!” she yelled. “I thought you might be a good man, perhaps even the _perfect_ man for me. I thought maybe you’d treat me well if I loved you, but you haven’t! I’m just like any other girl you fuck—I’m a receptacle for your semen. I’m one of your many whores.

“And yet it’s worse! Out of all your playthings, I was the one you chose to elevate to the disgraceful status of _girlfriend_. I was the one who held onto your arm in the hallways and kissed you in public. And I was the one everyone pointed and laughed at, as they whispered, _‘Look, there’s the girlfriend of Draco Malfoy the sex god. I’ll bet she doesn’t know he cheats on her every single day, five girls at a time.’_ You, Draco, are worse than a liar—you’re a cheater: You’ve cheated with my life and my happiness. And now that I’ve finally caught you, I’m going to give you the punishment every cheater gets: a zero. You and me spend zero time together, we give each other zero help, and we kiss and fuck a grand total of zero times all the way until we die! Because that’s what our relationship is: a zero. Fuck, I should have never gone out with you in the first place.”

            “I should have never gone out with _you_ ,” Draco retorted hotly. He had forgotten that his penis still hung outside his jeans, though it had now fallen to half-mast.

            “And I’m going to find every girl you ever fucked and tell them that they’re _all_ semen receptacles and that they shouldn’t hope for any sort of feeling from the likes of _you_. I hope it’ll keep you from ever finding another girl! In fact, I hope you die alone without any family.”

            Hermione quickly and quietly excused herself from the blowup and headed over to the next shelf, where Goyle, Luna, and Harry all stood, peeking at Pansy and Draco through the books.

            “So whose idea was it to let Malfoy’s penis get so close to my poor hair?” Hermione said indignantly.

            “Pansy’s,” Gregory said sourly. “I tried to get her to interrupt, but she refused until that thing was practically on your scalp. I was furious.”

            “Furious?” Hermione said curiously. “About what?”

            “About the thought of Malfoy doing that to you,” Gregory said. “I should have refused to let you be part of the plan at all.”

            “No, it’s all right,” Hermione said quickly, giving him a small hug. “I was just a bit shaken. Anyway, we busted Malfoy and his cheating binge, didn’t we?”

            “Yeah, I suppose,” Gregory said with a sigh. “But it won’t stop him from having sex with everything that moves. Now, he’ll be a nymphomaniac instead of a nymphomaniac cheater. I don’t think it’s much of an improvement, especially since it wasn’t voluntary on his part.”

            “Let’s forget about him,” Hermione said gently. “Draco’s currently getting properly castigated and cursed by his ex-girlfriend. It should be something he won’t forget in a hurry. In fact, he might learn something from it.”

            “Huh, maybe,” Gregory shrugged. “Look, let’s go to the other side of the library, and we can do some of our homework.”

            “Um…” Hermione turned to look at Luna and Harry. “Do you guys…?”

            “No, we don’t mind,” Harry said quickly. “Go do homework with him.”

            “You sure?” Hermione said quickly, clearly hoping they were.

            Harry grinned. “Think about what makes _you_ happy,” he said sagely. She smiled sweetly and thanked him. And then she pattered off after Goyle.

            “What a sweet couple,” Luna said serenely. “I never knew Gregory was so smart.”

            “Hey, it was just as much a surprise for me as it was for you,” Harry said, grinning. “But if he is so smart, then well… He’ll be good for Hermione, I think. Even though he _is_ a Slytherin”

            “Of course,” Luna said. “The Heebripple agrees.” After making this statement like it was a law, she skipped down the shelves and out of the library. Harry watched her go with a silly grin on his face. Damn, he loved Luna! And when he used the word _love_ , here he wasn’t sure it meant he was “in love” with her, though a few more months could bring it into fruition. Rather, he loved Luna in that he wanted to spend more time to get to know her. He had fought with her in the Department of Mysteries, and he’d trained with her for the last battle, but that wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy him. He wanted her to be his girlfriend—better yet, it appeared she wanted the same thing.

           The question was this: How to dump Ginny? When Luna finally disappeared from view, Harry turned around to finish watching Malfoy and Pansy’s breakup argument, mentally making notes on what to avoid when his current relationship came to an end.


	16. A Lot of Sexuality and Nudity and Their Defense

            By the next morning the entire school knew that Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson had broken up the night before. The breakfast chatter was even louder than normal, especially since neither Draco nor Pansy showed their faces the entire hour. How bad was the breakup?—They all wondered. What caused it? Was there any chance they’d get back together, or was it time to pounce before the relationship was even cold in its grave?

            “I think we should pounce,” Parvati said later that morning in Divination. The perspiration on her neck gave her a decidedly aroused air, though perhaps the incensed candles and the heavy fire were to blame. “I mean, Draco’s a hottie, there’s no denying that. And what’s more, he’s a _free_ hottie. Definite shag material.”

            “But he’s a boor,” Ernie said, sounding a little hacked off, though, once again, it may have been the heat in the tower that caused his irritability. “Why do you girls have to go after all the bad boys?”

            “Because,” Lavender replied, which wasn’t much of an answer at all. She turned back to Parvati and continued the conversation.

            “Maybe he wouldn’t make the best boyfriend, though,” Parvati said slowly. “I heard he goes around quite a bit.”

            “That’s what Pansy’s been telling everyone,” Lavender agreed. “She’s so furious it’s unbelievable. I can’t blame the poor girl, really—did no one think to tell her all these years that she had a cheater for a boyfriend?”

            “I guess not,” Parvati said, shrugging. “ _I_ wouldn’t have wanted to tell her, if I had known her better. It’s not exactly the best of news to spread.”

            “Ah, shut the fuck up,” Lavender jibed. “You would’ve so totally told her the second you found out!”

            “Has Draco really slept around that much?” Colin said, his question sounding almost like a complaint. “How do you know all the girls that _say_ they did him aren’t really just making it up? Maybe they just kissed him, or touched him, or maybe nothing at all, and Draco plays along because he likes all the notches in his belt.”

            “Believe me, we’ve thought of that already,” Parvati promised. “And we’ve figured that perhaps Draco hasn’t slept with _everyone_ he says. But there’s no doubt that he’s been around.”

            Professor Trelawney listened to the conversation with wide ears and tearing eyes. This was quite a lot to take in all at once—firstly, Draco was free! Free at last from the disgusting Parkinson girl who held him in her clutches for far too long! Obviously he had grown tired of the charade and dumped that imposter who called herself his girlfriend.

            _It must be because he wishes to spend more time with me_ , Trelawney figured, half desperately. _He loves me, I’m sure, with the same searing passion that I love him! He’s broken up with Pansy because he wishes to be with me!_

            “There’s a crusty spot on my armchair,” Ernie said, touching it gently. He leaned down to sniff it and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like old pancake batter,” he said. “Hey, do any of you guys know what this could be?”

Secondly, Draco had slept around with other girls. A _lot_ of other girls. After an internal debate and a good deal of evasive thought, Trelawney decided to set the matter aside. It was obviously a thing of the past, and surely Draco hadn’t engaged in that sort of licentiousness since he began meeting her. No, Draco’s heart belonged to her and her alone, and he had proved it by leaving the girl who was trying to interfere with their beautiful relationship.

            Trelawney was clearly the slave of some severe delusion, and what didn’t help was that the trapdoor opened suddenly, and Draco Malfoy himself climbed up the ladder and into the cramped tower.

            For a second the entire room was still except for the sputtering of the scented candles and the crackle from a heavy log in the fire. Parvati and Lavender abruptly stopped their conversation and gaped at the blond Slytherin, desperately trying to look as if they hadn’t spent all morning talking about him and that his entrance was merely a happy surprise. Ernie and Colin looked both uncomfortable and annoyed, while Luna and Loser merely knitted their eyebrows and frowned at the intruding young man. Professor Trelawney, however, jumped half a mile in her seat, a crazed look of worship flooding her blushing face. Her handles fluttered and her dress rustled as she gradually lost control of her nerves. Draco himself looked hot and bothered—that is to say, _extremely_ bothered and _extremely_ hot. Parvati and Lavender subconsciously relocated their hands from their throats to their nipples, while Trelawney looked ready to orgasm without even touching herself.

            Luna was the first to break the silence. She looked into the pile of ashes she was supposed to be reading and said loudly, “I predict that Clifford will knock over a crystal ball, and it will break.”

            Sure enough, a second later, Loser’s hand suddenly flailed out and sent a crystal ball careening across the room, where it shattered against the siding at the base of the wall. “Whoops,” he said lightly, dusting off his hands. “Now let _me_ try to read the future.” He gazed into his pile of ashes, which strangely took the form of a naked woman, and said slowly, “I’m gazing into the future… it’s a murky future to be sure… death is in the air. Whose death, it’s hard to say.”

            Trelawney twitched at the word _death_ , and her hand also relocated to her bosom as she turned to face Loser. “Death?” she whispered with a pleasurable shudder.

            “Death,” Loser repeated firmly looking her straight in the eye. “I cannot see who shall leave us, but what I do see with absolute certainty is that, in the next few seconds, Luna will slap Malfoy’s butt.”

            Right after Loser had finished his prediction, Luna reached out and landed a firm spanking right across Draco’s molded buttcheek. He let out a yelp and whirled around to glare at Luna. “So sorry, Drac,” Luna said sweetly. “It was fated to happen.”

            Trelawney gaped at both Luna and Loser, her face a little dazed. “Top marks for the day, you two,” she whispered, her gaze flickering from them to Draco. “Now you’re all dismissed.”

            “What?” Parvati cried, startled. “It’s barely fifteen minutes into class!”

            “You’re dismissed!” Trelawney cried.

            “Any homework?” Ernie asked, despite Colin’s attempts to shush him.

            “No, no homework!” Trelawney replied wildly, her breath growing heavy. “You’re dismissed, you’re all dismissed! Have a good day, my dears!”

            As her bewildered class gathered up their belongings and clambered down the stepladder, Sybil Trelawney inexorably reached for the zipper in the back of her dress, her fingers having a mind of their own as they prepared to strip off her unwanted garment. Draco, however, had different ideas. As soon as Luna and Loser disappeared down the stepladder, closing the trapdoor behind them, Draco yanked Sybil’s hands away from her dress and threw her into a huge purple armchair. She let out a startled gasp as he reached forward and, with an awesome tear, ripped her dress fully down the front, all the way from the collar to the lowest hem. As her elongated breasts spilled from her shirt, he took one in his mouth and began sucking so hard that it hurt. “Death…” Sybil Trelawney moaned through the pain as Draco chewed on her nipple. “Fuck… fuck!”

            “I’ll show you fuck.” Draco ground his words into her chest. He tore off her underwear as well and threw them into the corner of the room.

            “Death!” Trelawney moaned. The pain was building, but as it grew more acute, she felt her desire for Draco rise. She wanted him to bite her—to whip her, even! To kill her! Death and love combined, gloriously glued by the mess of fuck!

            Draco fiddled with his wand for a second, and suddenly his clothes were on the ground beside him. Pinning Trelawney roughly against the chintzy armchair, he drove into her as hard as he could. She let out a cry of “DEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAATH!” The word filled the tower and echoed in its tiny space, paining her ears and sending agonizing spasms through her lungs. Draco displayed no self-control as he battered into her, his face pained with emotion and his hands shaking against the arms of the chair.

            “I want to fuck you until you’re fucking dead!” he snarled, giving her no respite. “I want to pierce you right the fuck through, and I want it to hurt so bad that all you can do is scream and shriek and beg for mercy!”

            “PLEASE!” Trelawney cried in a desperate attempt at begging. “PLEASE, FUCK ME FOREVER, AND DON’T EVER STOP, EVEN IF IT KILLS ME! I LOVE IT SO FUCKING MUCH—I WANT THIS TO BE THE REST OF MY LIFE! I LOVE IT AS MUCH AS FUCKING _DEATH_! DO ME THE FUCK MORE!”

            After another excruciatingly painful minute, it was over. Draco lay on top of Sybil, his hands still digging into the arms of the chair. She trembled beneath him, cherishing every shot of pain in her system, knowing that Draco had caused it and loving him for it. The pain he gave her was also her pleasure, for it was clear he was in pain as well, and to think that he would share it with her was so humbling, and so awe-inspiring, that she hardly dared to breathe and continue living! When she begged for him, it wasn’t a sexual act—it truly was begging. She wanted to spend forever in his arms, loving him and letting him love her. She treasured every dip in his arm and every sparse hair on his chest, the tingle of his breath and the friction of his legs against hers. In his embrace the world felt right again—everything fucked was unfucked, and everything unfucked found love. What a glorious world it would be if Draco simply held her forever!

            Draco’s face, dark as it was already with barely suppressed anger, twisted into a cruel grimace, and he shot suddenly to his feet. For a moment longer he glared at Trelawney, surveying her with what seemed to be contempt, though she felt (or hoped) that the contempt wasn’t aimed at her. “Everything is so fucked up,” he finally snarled. And he strode towards the trapdoor, still naked. He left, summoning his clothes after him.

            _You’re right_ , Trelawney thought despairingly. _Now that you’re gone, everything_ is _fucked up._

            Meanwhile, at the bottom of the stepladder, Luna and Loser hid behind an Invisibility Charm that she had learned from Harry just last night, both trying to suppress their giggles as they watched Draco storm down the stepladder completely naked. When the trapdoor was shut and Draco had disappeared down the staircase, they both let loose their gales of laughter.

            “Malfoy and Trelawney!” Loser guffawed, unable to contain himself as he beat at the floor with his fists.

            “She must be more desperate than I thought!” Luna said, her silvery laughter filling the hallway. “Going after a student like that!

            “And I thought Malfoy was a freak _before_ …” Loser said.

            “I’ve heard of cradle robbing,” Luna said sweetly, “but who would ever rob the nuthouse? Unless, of course, there was the promise of an inheritance.”

            “Which there isn’t,” Loser grinned. “Trelawney’s a teacher—she’s dirt poor, and she stinks of sherry. What cheap taste, even for a Malfoy.”

            And so on and so forth. Neither of them could know, however, that this was no laughing matter.

 

**********

 

            Neville left Transfiguration that morning, unaware of the students that hurried around his lagging footsteps. He had done so poorly in class today that McGonagall had suggested he start tutoring with her on Tuesdays and Thursdays, much to his chagrin. He was kicking himself over ever entering NEWT Transfiguration—the subject was nightmarish enough without having to deal with it every single day of the week! He had finished last year with a high A, and McGonagall had decided to let him continue into Seventh Year if he promised to pull up his grade to a low E. Sadly, Seventh Year proved many times harder than Sixth Year, and he was stuck smack-dab in the P range. Just how many O’s would he have to get to offset—

            Something rudely interrupted his thoughts—or rather someone. Neville felt a strong arm grab him around the stomach and force him bodily into a nearby broom cupboard, at which a pair of hands ripped off his robes and tore violently at the bare skin beneath his shirt. His trousers were next to go, in one fell swoop.

            Neville let out a scream garbled with a gasp, which made him sound like a wild animal. He hadn’t yet processed what exactly was happening, as it had all passed so quickly, but when he felt a foreign presence near the cleft of his buttocks, he stopped trying to resist the attack. In the same moment, his assailant swiped an entire shelf clean of its supplies, making room for Neville’s spinning head and sweating torso. This left the shell-shocked Gryffindor bent at a right angle with the curve of his buttocks forming the sculpted corner. A draft of air blasted his sphincter and tickled his intestines, but a second later the aforesaid foreign presence slammed into him, blocking any breeze from entering or exiting.

            For a minute or so (he had difficulty measuring time at this moment) Neville experienced some of the most delightfully rough sensations he’d ever undergone in his entire life. Then it was over, and Neville was left gasping on the shelf with his raging hard on brushing against a splinter. Draco turned to leave—yes, Neville now knew it was Draco, for who the hell else could it possibly be?—and he even went as far as to open the door, but that was before Neville regained use of his facilities.

            Pulling his head out of the shelf and bumping it along the way, Neville pounced on Draco and sent him crashing to the ground. The Slytherin’s pants were on but still not secure, so it only took Neville one thoughtless second before they were around Draco’s knees.

            The Gryffindor boy leaned down to Draco’s ear and whispered, “Don’t even _think_ of leaving me so rudely.” And he turned the tables on Draco’s arse, half-in and half-out of the cupboard, in view for anyone to see.

            When Neville had come off as well, he leaned down and placed a firm kiss on Draco’s neck. The blond Slytherin shuddered rigidly as the kisses moved in a conscious line from his throat to his shoulder. Neville pulled Draco’s soft silk shirt all the way up to the armpit, then buried his face inside the man’s ribs, making a map of Draco’s perfect body inside his mind.

            This was paradise as Neville had never before experienced. When he kissed Draco, it not only felt good in a physical sense—it felt so incredibly _right_. Sometimes Neville thought that, if he kissed Draco long enough, the world would finally begin to make sense.

What was weird, though, was that he’d hated Draco for so long, and now suddenly they were having the best sex he’d ever experienced. How was such a thing even possible? Sexual pleasure, Neville has always thought, should be born from love, or at least from a strong mutual inclination. He and Luna had… well, not exactly _loved_ each other, but they had liked each other an awful lot. So they had had sex, and Neville enjoyed it. Really, he did. But it wasn’t as good as the sex he was having now, which really threw a curveball into Neville’s logic. A mutual hatred shouldn’t produce such awesome eroticism! And yet it did, and Neville no longer wanted to care how, just so long as it kept happening.

            A minute later McGonagall left her classroom, and Neville and Draco just barely managed to disappear back into the broom cupboard. As her footsteps receded, Neville put his clothes back on and left the closet. He got to Charms ten minutes late, but he didn’t care. He sat down quietly in his seat and pretended to take notes while he mentally reviewed his onrush of sexual euphoria.

            _I wonder how many people in this classroom have had sex in the past twenty-four hours?_ Neville mused, eyeing various classmates. _I wonder if Harry Potter got a blowjob from Ginny Weasley last night?_ He looked for some sign in Harry’s face that might betray such a secret, but it was rather hard to interpret any expression as: “I got head last night and loved it!” _Maybe Lavender and Parvati experimented with diddling each other._ But no look from either of them hinted at such an occurrence. _Or maybe Flitwick took Professor Vector from behind in a broom cupboard right before class!_ Neville supposed this couldn’t be the case, either, as his tiny teacher looked just as unsexed as ever.

            _When they look at me_ , Neville thought, _I wonder if they can tell that I’ve just had sex? Do they eye me and wonder the same things that I wonder about them? Is Hermione gazing into my eyes and trying to detect the exact glint that alerts her to the fact that I’ve just taken it up the arse with Draco?_

~~~~~

            Neville was so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear the girls on the other end of the room as they discussed Draco Malfoy in excited whispers.

            “So what do you think about him breaking up with Pansy?” Parvati asked some of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.

            “I heard it’s because he slept around with tons of people,” Padma said.

            “Who fucking cares?” Parvati said excitedly. “He’s free—that’s all that matters! Now we can fuck him with impunity.”

            “Even if he’s doing tons of other girls at the same time?” Hannah said doubtfully. “I dunno, it sounds real dodgy.”

            “Heck, as long as he does his protective charms, he can do the Giant Squid, for all I care!” Lavender said gleefully. “Just so long as he gives me a turn!”

            “But from what Pansy’s been telling every girl she meets,” Hannah continued, “it sounds like Draco does five girls in a row, one right after the other. That doesn’t sound conducive for a healthy relationship at all.”

            “Pansy’s just mad at Draco,” Parvati surmised, “and she’s _obviously_ lying. No guy can cum five times in a row. Believe me, I’ve tried to make them, and I have a hard time getting even a second orgasm, never mind a fifth.”

            And thus the girls surmised that Draco was still as desirable as he had always been, if not more so. Pansy’s vengeful truth-telling had been for naught.

 

**********

 

            Play practice on Friday actually went well. Except for the minor blip or two, everyone remembered their lines; what’s more, they actually acted instead of reeling off their monologues and dialogues like robots. The sets were now complete, the props all made, and the play was truly beginning to take shape. The special effects crew still had to figure out a few tricks, the lighting team was still doing a last few experimentations, and Flitwick was still practicing the singing portions with some of the actors, but overall the play was really beginning to come together.

            Around quarter past five, Dumbledore stopped to give everyone a round of praise. “Excellent work, all of you!” he said, beaming at them. “We’ve come so far in such a short time, and you don’t know how happy it makes me to see you all—fifty people from the four different houses—working together, some of you for the first time ever. This is the kind of teamwork Hogwarts needs right now… and for always. Keep up the good work!

            “Today is Friday the 14th of November. Next week we’ll begin blocking for Act IV, and then we’ll be doing full dress rehearsals for the next two weeks. The play will open on Friday, December 5th and play again Saturday. Make sure your parents mark those dates on their calendars!”

            The students actually smiled a little, and Hermione pulled out a daily planner and made a note to write to her parents. Dumbledore grinned at them all, then turned to Harry and Luna and said, “So… the big scene is coming up! Are you both prepared for it?”

            Harry scowled darkly at Dumbledore and opened his mouth to retort, but just as he was forming the words “Fuck you,” McGonagall strode through the double doors. Harry shut his mouth quickly; although Dumbledore would let profanity slip by with no more than a finger-wagging, the strict Transfiguration professor was likely to give a detention and a hefty points deduction.

            “Dumbledore,” she said briskly. “There are five dozen women walking through the grounds of Hogwarts, accompanied by all twelve governors, and they’re headed for the Great Hall.”

            Dumbledore’s eyes widened with considerable concern, but he didn’t stop smiling. “Oh really, Minerva? Well, well, well. Thanks for telling me. Do you know what they want?”

            “I have a general idea,” she said darkly, tapping her foot on the ground.

            Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. “Ah well, time for the fun to begin, I suppose.”

            “Yes. Right.” McGonagall took a deep breath and continued. “Listen, I also came here to borrow Harry.”

            “Oh, yes, feel free!” Dumbledore said quickly, sounding strangely delighted at the idea. “Harry, you heard her. Accompany her from the Great Hall, and make sure to protect her in the hallways—you know, if a student tries to rape her or something.”

            Both Harry and McGonagall pursed their lips, but the raven-haired Gryffindor followed his head-of-house from the Great Hall without complaint. As they strode through the Entrance Hall, McGongall’s shoes clicking measuredly against the marbled floor, Harry asked, “So, Professor, what do you need me for?”

            “Wait until we get to my office,” she said simply. She, however, didn’t seem interested in reaching her office sooner rather than later, for instead of increasing her pace she actually slowed down and took the stairs at barely more than a measured crawl.

 

~~~~~

 

            Down in the Great Hall, Ron and Ginny caught sight of Loser cowering in a dark corner of the wings, his face twisted in terror and his fingers trembling around each other. They hastened to his side. “How do you feel, Loser?” Ron asked him compassionately. “Do you want to face your mother? Do you feel you’re ready?”

            “I—” Loser whimpered, his eyes watering and his cheeks drawn in around his puckering lips. “Well, I think I should—”

            “But are you _ready_?” Ron interrupted him. “I don’t care if you feel you should be standing up to your mother. If you aren’t ready, it’ll do no good.”

            Loser squinched his eyes shut and turned his face away from the two Weasleys. He took a few deep breaths and turned around, looking calmer than before, though his eyes still watered. “Look,” he whispered as smoothly as he could, “I’m not ready. I’m—I’m just gonna stutter again, and I couldn’t stand that. I need more time.”

            “Then let’s get out of here,” Ron said. “How ‘bout a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks?”

            “Sounds good to me,” Ginny agreed.

            Loser managed a watery smile and said, with a deep breath, “Okay then. Look, guys, sorry that I can’t, you know—”

            “No need to apologize,” Ginny said. “We’re going to forget all about mums and plays and school, and we’re just going to enjoy ourselves for the rest of the afternoon and evening.”

            “And we’ll ask Hermione to update us on what’s going on,” Ron added.

            And with that, they sneaked out the backstage exit and entered the Entrance Hall just as the mob of parents passed into the Great Hall.

 

~~~~~

 

            “We’re back, Dumbledore!” Ivana cried. “Just as we said we would be.” She headed the group of angry parents, which had swelled from fifty to sixty since Monday. “And this time we brought the Board of Governors with us.” The school governors stood in the back of the crowd, their stiff postures and shifty eyes betraying that they wished to be anywhere but where they currently stood.

            “Wonderful, wonderful,” Dumbledore said gaily. “Have you come to watch the play practice?”

            “We’ve come to shut it down for good,” Ivana said sourly.

            For a second Dumbledore didn’t respond. In fact, he seemed to be ignoring her entirely, as he was busy counting the governors on his fingers. “There’s only eleven of you,” he said, frowning at them. “Where’s the twelfth?”

            “Right here, Albyliciousness!” Xenophilius said, waving both arms and jumping up and down. His dress robes of flaming magenta only drew more unnecessary attention to himself.

            “But of course!” Dumbledore said, chuckling. “You’ve been a governor eleven years, Xenophilius, and you still don’t feel the need to wear the official governor robes?”

            “Nope nope,” Xenophilius replied, shaking his head. “I masquerade as a parent most of the time; it gives the board a fresh perspective it otherwise wouldn’t have. Now where’s my Luna-poo? I want to give her a big hug!”  
            “Here, Daddy!” Luna sprinted off the stage and pounced into her father’s arms, where they gave each other multiple kisses on the cheek. “Did you have an exciting day today? How’s _The Quibbler_ doing?”

            “I’ve got a new article on Cockmice coming in for the December issue,” Mr. Lovegood said. “And I’m even going to do a feature on your Heebripple—I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to writing about it!”

            Ivana glared at the overeager father-daughter pair. “Now’s not the time for a childish display of affection!” she snapped at them. “We must return to the matter at hand.”

            “Of course,” Xenophilius said, rearranging Luna so that she stood by his side with his arm around her shoulders. “Return away.”

            She shot him one last sneer before she cleared her throat and faced Dumbledore. “Dumbledore,” she said coldly, purposefully dispensing of any honorific, “since the last time we met, it has come to my attention that your play not only contains foul language but also sexuality and nudity.”

            Dumbledore stood straight and looked her directly in the eye. His posture clearly stated that he was the one in control of the situation, but he was no longer smiling. “It does,” he said smoothly.

            Ivana’s face turned white as her sneer curled tighter. “Right,” she hissed. “In that case, I have come here with the school governors in tow, and we all declare that you excise every act of romance in this play—every kiss, every hug, and, most importantly, _every single moment of nudity_.”

            The uproar that followed shook the rafters.

 

~~~~~

 

            “So, Professor McGonagall, what did you want to see me about?” Harry asked nervously. As he and his professor sat on opposite sides of her desk, he marveled at her ability to make him feel as if he’d done something terribly wrong, even though he knew he hadn’t.

            “Yes, Harry,” McGonagall said slowly. “I did want to see you.”

            Harry pursed his lips suspiciously. He had never known McGonagall to mishear a question, and he was sure it was no accident that she did now. “But _what_ do you want to see me for?” he asked.

            “I wanted to ask you…” McGonagall’s voice trailed off to a rustling whisper, and she closed her eyes for a second and mumbled to herself, as if trying to recall an errant fact. “I wanted to ask you…” she opened her eyes again and looked directly at Harry. She paused as she spoke, but she refrained from stumbling over the same word twice. “I wanted to ask you if… you ever thought seriously of… becoming an Animagus.”

            Harry wasn’t sure what to make of the question, so he answered as truthfully and succinctly as possible. “No.”

 

~~~~~

 

            The students were incensed. _“No nudity?”_ Parvati and Lavender shrieked in unison. Many of the students echoed them shortly afterwards. The thought was staggering: They had been looking forward to Harry and Luna’s moments of nudity for nearly a month now, and suddenly the parents wanted to steal it from them!

            “It’s not fair!”

            “We aren’t babies anymore. We can handle ourselves!”

            “Merlin, it’s only nudity!”

            Such screams issued from the students, all of whom were mad that their parents were needlessly interfering with their lives yet again. They were teenagers, for Merlin’s sake—if they didn’t make their own choices now— _without_ adult interference!—how were they supposed to make their own choices after Hogwarts? And speaking of adult interference, why now? Why was it always with the things that didn’t matter? What was worse, though, was that they couldn’t even say _why_ they wanted the nudity in the play, as Dumbledore’s spell kept them from revealing who would be naked. And so they had to stick with whining and arguing.

            The parents glared at their kids, furious that the young ones would dare go against the opinion of the older generation. They had lived longer, which automatically meant that they knew _everything_ that would and wouldn’t harm their children in the long run—didn’t this, then, give them the right to interfere when necessary? They muttered amongst themselves and made evil eyes at Dumbledore, who stood in relative serenity between them and their excitable children. It wasn’t long before Ivana decided she had enough of the nonsense. She sent off a series of firecrackers with her wand, and in a few minutes everyone calmed down.

            “Every moment of nudity shall be removed,” Ivana insisted, glaring severely at every student in turn. “And I don’t want to hear another word against it.”

            “You’re not allowed to do this, though!” Hermione cried out, stepping forward to face Ivana.

            The offense that Loser’s mother took was too deep to appear fully in the expression on her face. Not even the way she stalked towards Hermione with a trembling fury could fully convey how deeply the reproach affronted her. When she was barely more than an arm’s length away from the bushy-haired brunette, she stopped and growled, “If there is one sin in the world that is greater than any other, it is the flouting of authority. You, hideous child, have done _just that_. And you don’t dare tell me what I can and can’t do, young upstart!

            “I’m not,” Hermione insisted, “but the law is! According to Section V, Article xiii, ordinance 10 of the _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Canon_ , the Board of Governors have every right to change the curriculums taught in the classrooms, but they are _not_ allowed to, and I quote, ‘interfere with extracurricular activities unless said activities endanger the physical well-being of the students in question.’ As this play is an extracurricular activity, you cannot get the Board of Governors to excise _anything_.”

            Ivana recoiled as if slapped. “You wicked child!” she cried. “How _dare_ you interfere in the matters of adults? And how _dare_ you make up some insane story just to satisfy your wicked, fleshly desires!”

            “Actually,” Xenophilius said, “Miss Granger is entirely correct. She apparently knows the school’s rules, Ivana, and you apparently do not. So I wouldn’t try to contradict her, if I were you.”

            “You can’t possibly support this, Mr. Lovegood!” Ivana said, trembling with fury. “Dumbledore has turned our children into disrespectful, depraved brats, and you have the gall to reprimand _me!_ Yell at the kids, they’re the ones who deserve it.”

            The parents nodded like so many bobbleheads while the children glared sourly, and the other eleven governors backed subconsciously towards the door. Xenophilius shook his head softly and said, “Look, Ivana, you have the law against you. Just accept it and move on.”

            “I refuse to accept it!” Ivana ground the words through her teeth. “It only says the Board of Governors can’t interfere with extracurricular activities. It doesn’t say anything about the parents not being allowed to do the same thing.”

            “Nor does it say anything about the parents having any right to do it,” Xenophilius countered. “Obviously we are in uncharted territory here, and since we have no rule to solve this for us, we’ll have to think up a compromise. Acting in my official position as governor, I shall think up a compromise that will either satisfy all of us or satisfy none of us.”

            “That isn’t fair!” Ivana retorted. “It… it just isn’t fair!”

            Xenophilius flourished his arms in triumph and cried, “I have thought up a compromise already! Firstly, the students have every right to engage in extracurricular activities that don’t inflict bodily harm upon their persons. This much we already know, and this much is being followed. We also know that the _Hogwarts Canon_ does not specify whether or not parents have any power over these extracurricular activities.

            “And so I declare that I will give the parents power to decide.” At these words, the parents all smiled coldly at their rebellious children, while the students groaned in disbelief and let out a few boos. Dumbledore and Luna, however, looked relatively comforted by Xenophilius’s speech. “Yes, a few lucky parents will get the power to decide whether or not the nudity will remain.”

            “What do you mean _a few lucky parents_?” Ivana asked, rubbing her temples in irritation.

            “Specifically, the parents of the children who are to appear nude. Dumbledore, I believe you said both children are of age?”

            “Your daughter is turning seventeen on Monday, right?” Dumbledore replied.

            “I am indeed!” Luna cooed.

            “Wonderful,” Xenophilius said. “So both children are of age. They shouldn’t have to get anyone’s permission to appear nude onstage, but since this is a compromise, they must make some sacrifices. I shall create some legal forms.” Here Xenophilius waved his wand, and two sets of legal documents appeared in his other hand. “Their parents or guardians must sign them before they can drop trou. How does that sound?”

            He turned to the other governors for approval, and they all quickly nodded and said nervously, “Sounds good.” “Yeah, nice idea, Lovegood. Right, parents?” “Quite an acceptable compromise.”

            “Cool,” Xenophilius said. He took the first set of legal documents and began signing them in all the appropriate places. In thirty seconds he handed it to Dumbledore, every entry complete. “There, Albus. Now Luna can appear nude. What about the other actor?”

 

~~~~~

 

            “You’ve never considered becoming an Animagus, Harry?” McGonagall continued.

            “No,” Harry repeated. “Why?”

            The Transfiguration professor shrugged and examined some papers on her desk. “Oh, no reason,” she said. “Just wondering.”

            “Look,” Harry said uncomfortably, “is that all? Because I think I’d better get back down to play practice.”

            “Oh no, not yet!” Professor McGonagall said quickly. “There’s more. Dumbledore won’t mind, I promise. He sent you off with me, didn’t he? Yes, he did.”

            So Harry sat in the seat as McGonagall thought up another question. “Um, Harry? Do you… um…”

            “Do I what?” Harry was cold with dread by now. McGonagall seemed to be skirting around _something_ —what exactly it was wasn’t apparent. But there was some issue she seemed to be avoiding, and it left his stomach feeling uncomfortably nonexistent.

            McGonagall rearranged a pile of papers on her desk and then asked casually, “So, Harry, are you getting a present for Luna for her birthday?”

            “I—what?” If Harry thought his professor was acting weird before, it was nothing compared to her most recent question. Instead of merely asking inane questions about his academic pursuits outside of class, she was now asking personal questions about things that would never concern her! He stood up quickly and said, “Look, professor, what exactly are you playing at? Because you’re really creeping me out, and I want to know exactly what’s going on!”

 

~~~~~

 

            “Ah,” Dumbledore said, delicately taking the other set of papers from Xenophilius Lovegood. “The other actor is currently absent right now, and his parent-guardians are not among us. Give me ten minutes, and I can find the parent-guardians and get them to sign these documents.”

            And so Dumbledore quickly strode from the room with the documents in hand. Once he was in the Entrance Hall and out of sight of the parents, he set off at a run for the nearest fireplace, which happened to be two hallways down in Professor Vector’s quarters.

            “Hello, my darlings!” Dumbledore said cheerfully as he sprinted through the professor’s classroom, which was currently occupied by half a dozen Seventh Years, all of whom were busy working on their Arithmancy project. “Verity, I’m going to be using your fireplace.” Before anyone could properly process what had just happened, Professor Dumbledore had thrown the Floor powder in the fireplace and called out, “The Hog’s Head!”

            After a moment of spinning, he stepped out into his brother’s pub and dusted off his robes. Aberforth himself was behind the counter, charming the mugs to wash themselves in the sink. After the war, health inspectors had swept through Hogsmeade and branded the Hog’s Head with a sanitation score of 25.5, which was low enough to qualify it for a T. So Aberforth had spent a whole month purifying the pub and overhauling his old system of cleaning and sanitation. Now the store bore a plaque with a sanitation score of 82.0, which was at least respectable, though nowhere near spectacular.

            “D’you have time to stop for a drink?” Aberforth asked Albus. “On the house.”

            “Sorry, Abe, not now,” Dumbledore said quickly. “I must be back at the school in seven minutes.” He Apparated from the Hog’s Head to the Dursley’s front doorstep and was delighted to see that some of the Floor powder on his robes fell onto the pristine doormat.

He reached forward and rang the doorbell thrice in quick succession. Petunia Dursley answered the door a moment later, looking irritable at having the doorbell rung twice more than was necessary. When she saw Dumbledore at the door, she backed away in horror, her bony face going white. “You!” she whispered, imperceptibly shaking her head as she gripped the edge of the door with a white hand.

            “Who’s at the damn door?” Vernon’s voice sounded rudely from the living room.

            “Hello there,” Dumbledore said, inviting himself inside the house when Petunia didn’t extend the courtesy.

            Vernon started and upset a can of beer on the coffee table. “What the hell is that man doing in house our again?” he cried, a little terrified. “He said he’d never be coming back!”

            “Fear not, I shall only take a moment of your time,” Dumbledore promised. He handed Petunia the papers and made himself comfortable on the couch. “Your nephew Harry is in a play at school right now, and—”

            “If you’re expecting us to go see it, then you can forget it!” Vernon growled stupidly.

            “Oh no, my good sir, I wouldn’t ask such a thing of you,” Dumbledore said. “I’d prefer to uphold the image of Howarts, thank you very much. Now if you’d let me finish, what I was saying is that Harry is playing a part in the play, and he is required to get nude in one scene. Since he is still a student, he is required to have his parents’ or guardians’ permission before he can do it.”

            Petunia and Vernon glared at the document in her hand, as if certain it would bite them if they tried to write on it. Whether they actually thought this or not, they certainly didn’t fill out the form.

            “Harry is adamantly against it,” Dumbledore continued. “Appearing nude in front of a thousand people would embarrass him tremendously.”

            He shut up after that, because Petunia and Vernon suddenly started filling out the documents like mad. Xenophilius, as fast as he was, had finished filling out the forms in thirty seconds, but Harry’s aunt and uncle managed twenty. Then they handed the papers back to Dumbledore with vindictive grins on their faces, and Dumbledore Apparrated away.

 

~~~~~

 

            “I’m sorry, Harry!” McGonagall said quickly, her mind working in double speed. “Look, I’ll tell you. Just promise not to tell Professor Flitwick. See, he and I have a competition going on to see who can get the most gossip out of a student, and, well… I don’t mean to pry, but I’d rather like to win the bet.”

            Harry honestly didn’t know what to make of this. He would have never believed that McGonagall would dig for student gossip, but now that he thought of it, he wouldn’t put such mischief beneath her. The real question was this: Was she telling the mildly embarrassing truth, or was she covering up something even worse?

            _I’ll just keep playing along and see if I can uncover anything_ , Harry thought. _Besides, I need to get a present for Luna, and Professor McGonagall’s a girl—er, female, I mean. She’d have some good ideas._ So he sat down and sighed. “Okay, Professor. What should I get Luna for her birthday, then?”

 

~~~~~

 

            Professor Dumbledore arrived back in the Entrance Hall within the ten minutes he had promised. He handed the documents to Xenophilius Lovegood, who looked them over and pronounced them satisfactory. “Glad that we’ve settled this little matter,” he said. Now let’s all get going.”

            The governors left quickly and eagerly. The parents lagged behind, none of them pleased with the afternoon’s results of protesting. Ivana was especially put out. “This isn’t over, Dumbledore,” she snarled at him. “You may have the law on your side now, but I’ll think of some way to put a stop to this transgression.”

            “Of course, sweetie pie,” Dumbledore crooned. “Bye for now, though. Have a nice evening!”

            And so the parents all left. One of them muttered in the silent hall, “I didn’t see Harry Potter today. What a disappointment.”

            When the parents left, Hannah said to Susan, “Actually, I think it’s a good think Harry wasn’t here. You know he doesn’t want to do the nudity, and he would have screwed everything up.”

            “Then let’s thank Merlin that McGonagall called him off,” Susan said. “Now we still get to see him nude.”

            “You don’t actually want that, though,” Edmund said irritably, appearing behind her shoulder.

            “What about it?” Susan said coolly. “He’s pretty hot.”

            “But he’s not your boyfriend!” Edmund said angrily. “You’re not supposed to want to see other boys naked!”

            “Because you _never_ want to see other girls naked,” Susan said rolling her eyes. “ _Please_ , Edmund. Grow up. It’s Harry Potter—it’s not a big deal if a girl wants to see him naked. I mean, what girl _doesn’t_?”

            “I dunno,” Hannah said, giggling as she ignored Edmund’s fuming. “I’ll bet McGonagall would be prudish enough to be pretty damn repulsed by the idea.”

 

**********

 

            Later that evening McGonagall and Dumbledore were in the staff room finishing up a spot of paperwork. Dumbledore took a break long enough to say, “Look, Minerva, thanks for taking Harry off my hands when the parents came by.”

            “Are you kidding?” McGonagall said severely, though she was hiding a grin. “It needed to be done. If I’m ever to see Harry Potter naked, then I couldn’t have him ruining his own chances by putting up a protest in front of the school governors. I must also commend you for nominating Xenophilius for the position all those years ago. He sure pulled us out of a messy spot today.”

            “So you finally approve of the play?” Dumbledore said happily.

            “No,” McGonagall replied promptly. “I think five hundred profanities is four hundred ninety too much, I think there’s way too much sex, and I think the gory makeup effects are too sensational. But I sure as Merlin want to see Harry Potter naked!”

            “I know how you feel,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. “I want to see him naked, too.”


	17. In Which a Triangle Breaks Off at One Side

            Hermione did not have a good weekend. When Harry and Ron ran outside to make snow forts with the other Gryffindor students, she trudged over to the library to decipher a particularly difficult curse in an ancient Arithmancy text. It was a shame to pass up such a lovely time with her friends, but it was of vital importance that she figure out how exactly this spell worked, as it was a central idea in her project. Sadly, though, ten hours of reading, rereading, copious deciphering, and constant brain-racking yielded no results. The curse remained as indecipherable as ever, and she went to bed in a foul temper. The next day she went to the library again while Harry and Ron went down to the Kitchens to visit Dobby and pick up some treats. After a few hours of studying, Hermione finally thought she was making a bit of headway, but she had to put her project on hold so she could write an essay for Transfiguration and a recipe for Potions.

            At 10:00 at night, Hermione limped to the Prefects’ Bathroom, her legs stiff from sitting all day. She brushed her teeth (for two minutes, just as her parents had taught her), then flossed and used germ-killing mouthwash. Then she washed her face and surveyed herself in the mirror.

            Her hair. Ugh, her hair! She hated it. She had spent a whole hour this morning trying to straighten it as it dried, and once again she had gone out in the hallways looking like a gigantic fur ball with a body. How many hours of her life had she wasted trying to fix the one thing about her that was unfixable? And yet the more she realized she could do nothing about it, the more she stubbornly tried. To think, she could be gorgeous if only that one thing about her could change—if she could only have different hair!

            _Maybe_ , she mused, _a trim would help. I haven’t cut my hair since last year—since before the final battle, that is! Gosh, that_ was _an age ago!_

            So Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket and, whispering a few specific incantations, led it around the edge of her hair. Four inches of hair fluttered to the ground and made a wispy ring around her feet. She waved her wand, and the trimmings vanished.

            As Hermione examined her new appearance in the mirror, she came across a horrible realization: It takes more than skill with magic to make a good hairstyle. Yes, Hermione’s hair was as hideous as ever. Scratch that, it was _worse_ than ever. Hermione was no great shakes at styling and grooming like Parvati and Lavender—she could make herself look presentable like any other girl, but sexy and stunning was out of her league—and her aptitude at magic had not translated into the trim. With less weight at the ends, her hair poufed out _more_ , making her look more like a yeti than a brainy Gryffindor girl.

            “No!” Hermione cried, banging the sink feebly with her fist. She turned quickly away from the mirror and pattered sadly over to the edge of the tub and sat down on the marble rim. There, she wept quietly into her hands and tried not to touch her bushy hair.

            Hermione had been crying for quite some time when she heard a familiar voice behind her ear. “You okay?” said the person, a forlorn teenage girl who sounded as though she enjoyed Hermione’s misery.

            “No, I’m not, Myrtle,” Hermione sniffed. “I’m hideous, I’m ugly. That’s how I am.”

            Moaning Myrtle put a translucent hand on Hermione’s shoulder, and she tried not to shudder at the icy draft that shot through her. “It’s your hair again, isn’t it?” Myrtle said sympathetically. Hermione only nodded, feeling too miserable to speak. “You think it’s so hideous that no boy will ever look at you except to laugh at you.”

            “Either that,” Hermione hiccupped, “or they’ll consider me some strange fetish doll with which to play if they’re feeling especially kinky.”

            “Strange fetish doll?” Myrtle asked curiously. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

            “Malfoy tried to cum in my hair,” Hermione said forlornly. “He wouldn’t have found me so sexually satisfying if I hadn’t been so unsightly.”

            “That’s got to be a downer,” Moaning Myrtle sympathized. “But you know what? Boys are stupid. So are girls, for that matter. Even if you looked stunning, they still wouldn’t look twice, because they can’t see a good thing even if it hit them in the eyeballs. Boys like the cheap whores, and girls like the narcissistic dickheads.”

            “Thanks, Myrtle,” Hermione said sarcastically. “That really makes me feel so much better.”

            “It’s true, though!” Myrtle said, her voice gaining the edge of a sob. “I had a crush on this one person throughout my _entire_ life at school, and did that person once look at me? No. I didn’t sell my body enough, and I didn’t act girly enough, because I wanted to be a normal human being instead of a skank. But it didn’t matter that I was nice and that my hair looked a sight better than yours!” She was crying by now.

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Hermione whispered, though she was secretly annoyed that Moaning Myrtle had stolen the spotlight of misery. “I, um, wish that you had gotten together with your crush.”

            “Wish away, then,” Myrtle said sourly, “’cause I’m dead. And a fat lot of good that’ll do me now.”

            And Hermione, though still annoyed at Moaning Myrtle’s moaning, realized that the ghost helped put her life in perspective. Though she, Hermione, had hideously bushy hair, at least she wasn’t dead.

            Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best comfort in the world, but at least it was something…

 

**********

 

             Harry Potter went to play practice that Monday with a parcel under his arms. He told nobody what was in it, although Ron sucker-punched him in the shoulder and Hermione tried to beg it out of him. Ginny, however, didn’t ask—she and Harry had had another fight the night before, and they weren’t speaking to each other. Miraculously, they were still together. Harry had thought of cutting it all off with her during the fight, but he had chickened out at the last moment, and Ginny stubbornly refused to initiate the breakup. And so their relationship continued, irritably and brokenly, but still strung together by Merlin knows what. Certainly not by semen—the two of them hadn’t had sex in over a month.

            Harry wasn’t in the best of moods. He smiled every single time he squeezed the package closer to him, but other than that his circumstances were pretty bleak. Not only did he and Ginny stand on different sides of the stage at the beginning of practice, but today also began the dreaded week: Blocking for Act Four. And Act Four included Scene Three, which was the dreaded nude scene.

            Before Scene Three, however, came Scenes One and Two. Scene One included a huge musical number with lots of lighting effects and intricate choreography, so it took a good two hours of practicing before Dumbledore decided to move on to Scene Two. Harry prayed and desperately hoped that Scene Two would take up the last hour of practice, thus postponing his dreaded nude scene until Wednesday.

            One must remember, however, that Harry had always been susceptible to rape by Misfortune, and once again Misfortune violated Harry in this manner:

            “What a short scene!” Dumbledore commented after ten minutes. “Miss Granger and Master Goyle, you performed to perfection. I’m not quite sure how you two do it, but you’re an even better pair than I envisioned when I was writing the script.”

            Harry scowled severely at Hermione and Goyle, who grinned and thanked the professor. Then Dumbledore clapped his hands together and, rubbing them enthusiastically, said, “Now for the scene we’ve all been waiting for!”

            “NO!” As soon as Harry found it within himself to protest, he let out this harsh shriek. “I’m not doing it, Dumbledore! I’ve said time and time again that I don’t want to, so I’m not going to!”

            “But my dear boy,” Dumbledore coaxed him, “Mr. Lovegood went to all the trouble to make sure the parents couldn’t protest the nude scene, and I even got your aunt and uncle to sign a form giving you permission.”

            “YOU DID _WHAT?!_ ”

            “And that was a real pain, let me tell you. Those relatives of yours make me sick. They make mine look like Father Christmas and his band of elves.”

            “I dunno, Father Christmas can be pretty damn annoying too, though,” Ron muttered, “especially in those Muggle commercials around Christmastime.”

            “You took all the trouble to go to the DURSLEYS, just to make my life more miserable?” Harry yelled at the old man, pacing back and forth across the stage. “As if I hadn’t had enough misery already! I’ve grown up an orphan with an aunt, an uncle, and cousin who hated my guts! Every single year I was at Hogwarts, I nearly died, and half the time you could’ve stopped it! I watched classmates and close friends as they were murdered in front of me! I had to kill fucking Voldemort himself! And now you have the _gall_ to stick me in a _nude scene_? I don’t understand how you sleep at night!”

            Dumbledore stood quietly throughout Harry’s tirade, though he winced when the distraught teenager pulled the death card. When Harry finally stopped to catch his breath, he turned to Luna and said, “Miss Lovegood, Harry has just told me that he’ll be miserable when the two of you are nude together onstage.”

            “You want to know miserable?” Harry retorted. “Miserable is _not_ going starkers with Luna, but flashing your bits for five hundred people to see!”

            “That doesn’t sound miserable to _me_ ,” Dumbledore disagreed respectfully. “I wish I was younger so that I could do it myself.”

            “Oh, I’ll bet you do!” Harry ground out, coming to a stop. “In fact, I’ll go as far as to encourage you, out in the open for everyone to see! And when everyone laughs or says ‘EEEEWWW!’ you’ll know how I feel.”

            “My dear boy, don’t be ridiculous,” Dumbledore said, faintly impatient. “You’re young and virile, and if I’ve been keeping up with this school’s gossip properly, you’re hung like a horse. Nobody is going to say ‘ew’ when they see you in your full glory. Perhaps ‘ooh!’ but not ‘ew.’ You sell yourself _way_ too short, my boy.”

            Harry snarled at him and turned to face Luna. “What do you think, Luna?” he asked angrily, his hands crossed across his chest in an unconscious effort to keep his clothes firmly against his body. “This is totally unfair, isn’t it?”

            “Well, I’ve heard your penis _is_ big,” Luna said. “And that may seem pretty unfair to all the boys out there who can’t boast the same measurements.”

            “That’s not what I meant!” Harry said angrily. “I shouldn’t have to strip if I don’t want to, should I?”

            “No comment,” Luna said quickly, a grin spreading across her face.

            “Look, you have to strip, too,” Harry said, advancing towards her. “Doesn’t that make you mad? Don’t you think Dumbledore is exploiting us in order to draw in a larger audience? Don’t you feel violated in the slightest bit?”

            “No,” Luna replied. “I don’t.”

            Harry whirled away from her and swore vociferously. “Ah, _fuck_ all.”

            Dumbledore stepped lightly forward and said softly, “If it makes you feel any better Harry, I’m saving the nudity until the opening night. For now, you shall merely practice in your underwear.”

            “Believe it or not,” Harry replied, “that doesn’t make me feel better at all.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Dumbledore said, though he didn’t sound very sorry. “Maybe a good night’s sleep will make it all better. Now we must really get practicing, so everyone in position!”

            The crew scrambled into place while Luna and Harry positioned themselves in the middle of the stable set. Then the scene began. Luna and Harry went through their lines as Ravenclaw and James the stable boy. Then Luna came to her final line: “…but phys’cal is the bond of one from two!”

            Luna proceeded to unzip the dress she wore as part of her costume. She worked it down her chest and over her hips, then down her legs, all the way to the ankles. Then she stepped out of the dress and stood erect before Harry.

            For years Harry had looked at Luna’s face and loved it—who could fail, after all, to love the symmetry in her slim features, each side complete with a wide blue eye and a dimpled cheek and two halves of a small, red lip, all framed by the best straggly blond hair Harry had ever seen in his life? But never before had Harry seen what was underneath Luna’s robes. He had never seen the full extent of her cleavage: Before he had seen hints of her breasts, but now he saw clearly the soft globes they formed before they disappeared into the bra at the nipple. He saw two freckles on her left shoulder, right at the spot where it met her upper arm. He saw a rabbit-shaped birthmark on her smooth thigh, one inch below the pure white panties she wore.

            The greatest marvel, Harry found, was Luna’s musculature. She was not overly built, but at the same time it was apparent she kept herself in good shape. Her arms were small, but the muscles looked strong enough to squeeze the breath out of Harry. Her legs were not much larger, but they curved gracefully and compactly to her feet, which looked more than capable of carrying her for a couple miles of running, if she ever had the whim to do so.

            Now squeezing and running weren’t really that sexy by themselves, but when Harry imagined her legs running beside his—both pairs bare in the wind—running and running without rest until they reached some faraway place and hugged each other tightly, her naked arms clutched around his ribs, well…! _That_ most definitely turned Harry on.

            “Master Potter, you are waiting way too long to talk off your clothes,” Dumbledore criticized him. “You have ruined the pacing of the scene.”

            Harry gazed longingly at the professor, silently imploring him to let him keep his clothes on. But Dumbledore frowned at him and stared keenly until Harry realized that it was no use.

            With a sigh, Harry began undressing, trying to distract himself with the lovely Luna Lovegood and her gorgeous breasts. It was working until he lifted his tunic fluidly over his head, causing half the people in the room to sigh with lust (the other half was already tied up with Luna, and those who were bisexual were having a field day). This shook him up a bit, so he didn’t touch his leather britches, much to everyone’s consternation.

            “What about your trousers?” Susan whined. “Luna got down to her underwear, why can’t you?”

            “Yeah, we want to see it all!” cried an overexcited Orla Quirke.

            “Do I have to?” Harry moaned. “Dumbledore, is this really necessary?”

            “Yes, my dear boy,” Dumbledore replied. “Now are you going to take off your trousers, or must I remove them for you?”

            And so with bad grace Harry removed the leather britches and stood onstage in his boxers. Luna grinned and eyed him up and down, while Ginny stomped into the dressing room to sulk.

            Harry was one hot young man—even he himself would see no point in denying it. The remnants of a fine summer tan painted his firmly-muscled body, a body he had gotten from working out on top of doing Quidditch (contrary to popular belief, Quidditch was good exercise for the legs only, though that was enough to make a performance in bed thoroughly satisfying). And yet Harry didn’t think it’d matter any more than if he was paunchy and overweight, for he _still_ felt intensely humiliated as he stood onstage in his underwear. He and Luna recited their lines as they had done in all their other scenes, but Harry’s concentration was shot by all the whispering and muted catcalling that tumbled around from every corner of the Great Hall. He stumbled over an easy line that he had memorized three weeks ago. He stuttered two lines later. By the third mistake, Dumbledore stopped the scene and said, “Whatever is the matter, Harry?”

            “Geez, I wonder!” Harry shot back, suffering from a blush that extended beyond his cheeks and flushed his entire body red.

            “We’ll have to start over from the moment when you two take your clothes off,” Dumbledore said. “And this time, try to concentrate.”

            “Have you ever tried concentrating when you’re standing practically naked in front of fifty of your classmates?” Harry wailed. “It’s not as easy as it looks!” His nerves were too frayed to speak calmly, and yet the more agitated he got, the more everyone stared at him, which only made him even more agitated in turn. It was a cycle that had spun out of control.

            “My dear boy, it’s only a bit of nudity,” Dumbledore said reprovingly. “And I’m not even making you get nude just yet. Now either get used to the idea, or I’ll make you walk around in your underwear the entire week. It won’t be a hard ruling to enforce, let me tell you—I have half the Hogwarts population willing to keep an eye on you, no pun intended.”

            Harry opened his mouth furiously but found himself unable to reply to such a ridiculous pronouncement. Dumbledore had always been a forthright being, acting as he saw fit, no matter how unfavorably everyone else reacted. But in the past year or so, the old man had really been getting out of control. First he had overhauled Charles Durdge’s classic, which took a tremendous amount of ego itself. Then he has cast the students in roles they all hated. Now he was trying to get two of them to strip in front of all their classmates. There was something incredibly wrong about all this, but Harry didn’t know how to stop it. His whining obviously wasn’t doing the trick.

            By the end of the hour, Harry was in a foul mood. Dumbledore made him and Luna go through their lines ten times before he realized it was time for dinner, so he ended play practice for the day. Harry bolted for the dressing rooms, where he changed back into his school uniform in thirty seconds flat and ran from the Great Hall, the parcel tucked under his arm.

            Luna picked up her school robe, wrapped it around her scantily clad form, and ran after Harry. They met up a floor above the Great Hall, where Luna took Harry’s arm and pulled him into a nearby classroom.

            “So, Harry,” she said gently, “how mad are you right now?”

            “Very,” he muttered, pouting at his feet.

Luna sent a ball of light from her wand to illuminate the chandelier above them, and the room filled with a whitish glow. Then, pocketing her wand, she steered Harry’s head by the chin until she was looking at him eye-to-eye. “Hmm,” she said critically, “those Skeezers got to you again. So did the Gnarls, it seems.”

            “You bet the fuck they did,” Harry said sullenly. “I never imagined that anything in Hogwarts could be this much torture.”

            “How do you mean?” Luna asked curiously. “The final battle took place on these very grounds, and Voldemort cast a sustained _Cruciatus_ on you. Certainly that’s the greater torture.”

            “Oh, go ahead and think that if you wish!” Harry said with a humorless laugh.

            “Maybe Dumbledore was being a weeny bit pushy about it,” Luna conceded as she stroked Harry’s cheek, “but he was right about one thing. It _is_ just nudity.”

            “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re not,” Harry said, brushing her hand away.

            “I’m just saying,” Luna said, insistently putting her hand back on his cheek, “it could be worse. Voldemort could have tortured you even longer during the final battle, and he could’ve even killed you.”

            “You know what? I rather wish right now that that had happened!” Harry said desperately. “Then I could be in heaven while everyone else in Hogwarts suffered in this hellish play.”

            “Believe it or not,” Luna said, “but you’re the only one who still hasn’t come to terms with play. Everyone else has gotten used to their roles, and they’re all managing to have a good time.”

            “That’s because none of them have to get naked!” Harry argued. “They don’t have to go starkers in front of all their classmates and every single parent, but _I_ do.”

            “So do I,” Luna said.

            “And you’re fine with it,” Harry said. “I don’t know how the fuck you are, but somehow you just are. But _I’m_ not. I didn’t know I’d have to create a no-nudity contract for a dumbarse school play, and I don’t know why the hell Dumbledore couldn’t have chosen someone a bit more eager to do it than me.”

            “But Harry,” Luna whispered, pouting a little, “if Dumbledore hadn’t chosen you, then someone else would be getting nude onstage with me, and I wouldn’t have liked that. The Heebripple would have been sad, too. He thinks we’ll make the perfect couple, and he can’t imagine anyone else in our roles.”

            At the mention of the Heebripple, the glare on Harry’s face faded away, replacing itself with a glow in his cheeks. “The Heebripple, did you say?” he said, his eyes brightening. “Oh gosh, Luna, thanks for reminding me!” He pulled out the parcel from under his arm and handed it to her. “Happy seventeenth birthday, Luna.”

            “You found out when my birthday is!” Luna said happily. “Nobody’s bothered before, except for Daddy and Dumbledore.”

            “Well, I found out,” Harry said. “from McGonagall, actually, and I decided I wanted to give you a present, so… there you go.”

            Smiling from one ear to the other, Luna unwrapped the parcel and pulled out a strange contraption that looked like a megaphone with wobbly bells adorning the wide end. The bells rang at an odd, piercing pitch when Luna moved the megaphone about. “Oh, Harry!” she gasped, and he was privileged to see one of the few times when Luna looked truly surprised. “You got me a Heebripple Communicatizing Device! I had no idea you knew about these.”

            “I had to a do a little bit of research,” Harry admitted, grinning, “but I thought it’d be perfect for you, so, well… I bought it.”

            “Thank you!” Luna threw her arms around his ribs in a tight hug, reminding Harry of his earlier fantasy. “Thank you, thank you!”

            Harry was loving this: He had never felt so good after giving a present before. For Ginny’s birthday and Christmas gifts, he always gave her jewelry, going by the old standby that diamonds were a girl’s best friend. Indeed it seemed to be the case, because Ginny was always delighted to get another sparkling bracelet or an elegant necklace or a breathlessly ornamental ring. Harry, however, felt a little inadequate at going with the same present every time. Once he thought about buying her a broomstick repair kit, but he was afraid she might not find use for it, so he bought her a necklace instead. Last Christmas he thought of building her a small getaway at Hogwarts, a shelter of sorts where the two of them could sneak away to have some alone time, but he was worried she might consider it too big a gift, so he opted for a bracelet instead. He had gone the safe route, and Ginny had been happy—she had worn the jewelry, after all, plenty of times. Every other girl in Hogwarts complimented Harry on his romantic choice of gifts. But it still didn’t ring true with Harry.

            But now, when he saw Luna’s wide eyes (wider than normal, that is) and her gaze of childlike wonder as she inspected the present closely, fully engrossed in it to the point that she even forgot Harry was there, it all rang so true that every bit of jewelry he had ever bought now seemed as romantic as so many cow pies.

            In a minute or so, Luna was done inspecting her marvelous present. She turned back to Harry with a grin, and for a second they stood in silence. Harry wasn’t sure what to say, so he stayed quiet and waited for her to speak.

            “You _will_ come to enjoy the play, won’t you?” Luna implored sweetly. “I don’t like seeing the frown on your face.”

            “Nah, it’ll be torture,” Harry replied, unable to suppress a grin as he gazed into Luna’s eyes, “but I suppose I can at least get used to it. I mean, at least you’re up there with me. At least I’m not performing all on my lonesome.”

            “No, you’re not,” Luna agreed. “And you get to pretend to have sex with me. That’s also a plus.”

            Harry’s throat went dry as he scuffed his feet against the floor. “So,” he said hoarsely, “You don’t feel uncomfortable simulating sex onstage?”

            “No,” Luna said.

            “Of course not,” Harry said, chuckling a little. “You aren’t embarrassed by anything. I’d almost think you wouldn’t mind doing it onstage for real!”

            “Mmm, I’d draw the line there,” Luna said, realizing his attempt at jest. “Not that I’d be embarrassed, but sex— _real_ sex, that is—should be saved for somewhere a bit more private.”

            “Ah, a _bit_ more private,” Harry said, amused at her choice of words. He took a seat on a nearby desk and said, “So tell me more about your views on sex.”

            “Oh, goody!” Luna said, clapping her hands together. “I love talking about sex! Okay, so first of all, I think sex should be saved until marriage.”

            Harry nearly slipped off the desk. “Really?” he said quickly, shocked by her reply. By the way she talked about sex and treated sex, he found it difficult to believe that she was saving herself for marriage. And unless he was wrong, he was pretty sure she and Neville had made love during their time as boyfriend and girlfriend last year.

            “Of course,” Luna said, her eyes going wide. “You should not have sex until the marriage of the Cockmice. As I’ve already told you, the Cockmice are naturally attracted to semen, and when it films around the head of the penis, they hold a party and dance on your nerve endings. And if you feel very strongly for the person who has incited the film of semen, then the Cockmice sense it with their Perundulators. This sends them into a frenzy, and immediately the oldest unmarried Cockmouse of each gender bonds in marriage. When this happens, you know you’re ready to take the final plunge in your physical relationship.”

            “Oh!” Harry breathed, shocked at the answer and pleased by its explicit terms. “Wow. So… yeah! But what if you can’t see the Cockmice?”

            Luna laughed a little laugh and shook her head at Harry. “Don’t be silly, Harry,” she crooned. “Cockmice are one of the easiest animals to sense, even more so than the Dibblesnitzersnooj, and that’s saying something. And even if your eyes aren’t good enough to see them, you can at least feel them: Here—” she touched a hand to his chest, inciting a warm shiver— “and here—” her hand slid down his stomach and came to rest on his crotch. She kept her hand there for not even half-a-second, but it was enough to make Harry heave an audible groan. Luna grinned happily, as if the groan was just what she was looking for, and she gave Harry a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the super-duper birthday present,” she said. And she left.

            For a moment that lasted a lifetime, Harry stood in the middle of the empty classroom, all thoughts of dinner forgotten. He let another groan and tried to figure out just how Luna could turn him on so severely without touching him. Okay, so there was that one last touch, but it was only for a second, and he’d practically been creaming him pants before that.

            Speaking of creamed pants, he needed to get up to his dormitory pronto, because, well…

“Oh, fuck, she is so hot!” Harry breathed to himself as he sprinted from the classroom. He hurtled through the halls of Hogwarts, taking every staircase two steps at a time until he finally reached Gryffindor Tower. From there it was only another minute before he was in his dormitory. He thrust his arm under his mattress and pulled out his porn and his jerk-off towel and threw them both haphazardly on his bed. Then he leaped onto the mattress and worked his pants down his hips. It was hard going at first until he remembered to undo his belt and unzip his jeans, and from there it was only a matter of seconds until he was in full jerk-off mode. The porn lay forgotten in the middle of the bed as he bent double over the towel and recalled to mind today’s play practice, when Luna had stripped off her robe with such ease, such assuredness. What he wouldn’t give to have such confidence in himself! What he wouldn’t do to win a woman like that: a sexy woman who’d complete him in a way that no other sexy woman could! Oh, what a personality she had! What brains! What boobs! What arms and legs! What an arse!

            When Harry’s thought train sped him to Luna’s pubic triangle, his frenzy reached its outcome. With the hot liquid came a sigh of unconquerable satisfaction that started from the bottom of his stomach and exhaled itself through his entire chest and out his tingling throat.

            “So!” This sound came from the doorway in a sharp and startling snarl. Harry whipped his head in the direction of the noise and saw, to his horror, that he had forgotten to draw the curtains. To complete his misfortune, the person at the doorway happened to be the last person he wanted to see at the moment: Ginny Weasley.

            “So!” she repeated, her hands on her hips and her face red with fury. “I come up here to see what’s keeping you from your dinner, and what do I find? You wanking to a porn magazine! No wonder you haven’t slept with me in a month!”

            “No, I wasn’t—” Harry was about to say he wasn’t wanking off to his porn magazine, but he realized it’d be worse if Ginny knew he was wanking off to the memory of Luna Lovegood.

            “Oh you weren’t, were you!” Ginny cried. “Then what exactly do you call that sticky stuff on your towel?”

            “I call it semen,” Harry said mulishly, scowling at her with a sullen crease in his eyebrows.

            “And _I_ call it the end of our relationship,” Ginny retorted.

            “So we’re through?” Harry said, his heart suddenly beating double-speed at the thought. He had wanted this for the past few months, but he hadn’t wanted to be the one to cause the final, painful breakup.

            “Yes.”

            “Thank Merlin!” Harry breathed before he could stop himself.

            “Oh?” Ginny said, her voice rising an octave. “Well, I’m happy, too. Happy as all fuck! Now I can go date someone who isn’t the worst fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

            “My sentiments exactly!” Harry returned fiercely. “Tell you what: I’ll get together with someone who’s a thousand times hotter than you and a million times cooler than you.”

            “And I’ll hook up with someone who isn’t a one hundred percent arsehole coward,” Ginny said.

            “I’ll get together with someone who doesn’t have a used tampon fetish,” Harry continued.

            Ginny blushed magnificently at this low blow and hissed, “And I’ll get together with someone who values me above a random porno pinup.”

            “And I’m going to shut up, because this is just juvenile,” said Harry, also blushing.

            “Just the word I was looking for!” Ginny cried as she strode backwards towards the door. “You’re juvenile, Harry. You’re afraid of rejection. You played with that porn of yours because you were afraid to break up with me and find someone else to be with. The funny thing is you actually did more harm than you would have by just ending it.”

            And like that, she was gone. Harry blinked once and sat in silence, his penis hanging limp outside his jeans as a final bead of semen dripped from the head. Then he slammed his fist against his pillow and yelled, “DAMN it!”

            She was right—she was fucking right! He _was_ a coward to sit here jerking off instead of handling his relationship problems like a man. It didn’t matter that he had stood up to Voldemort and, at the age of sixteen, saved the entire world: In that he was one of the world’s greatest men, but in this he was still a child. After his training for the final battle, it seemed that he was ready for anything that came his way, and for many months he literally felt on top of the world. With a girlfriend he loved, a life he could now live, and another million reasons to be truly happy, he couldn’t imagine any being in the Wizarding World who was more self-assured than he. But now he was as miserable as any average schmoe, and he hated himself for letting it happen.

            _Okay, stop it,_ Harry told himself sternly. _I can deal with this—it wasn’t with this attitude that I defeated Voldemort. This is just another problem, and I can defeat it, too._

            It was with this change in mentality that Harry burned his towel and porn magazine with a quick “ _Incendio_.” Then he swore to himself that he wouldn’t touch porn, or even masturbate, until he’d properly earned his sexual privileges from a willing and worthy woman. Surely that couldn’t be harder than fighting the most powerful Dark wizard of all time—could it?

            He was about to find out.


	18. Skinny Dipping

            If there was one thing that terrified Harry, it was the idea of Ron’s reaction to the breakup. When Michael Corner had broken up with Ginny, Ron had put a dent in his head long and deep enough for him to stick his wand in it. When Dean got together with Ginny, Ron beat him, too, then beat him even harder when he ended it. Even Harry had gotten a couple roundhouses to the head when he took Ginny’s virginity. “But she took my virginity, too!” Harry had argued at the time. “Why aren’t you beating her up as well?” Naturally, the argument didn’t work, just as it wouldn’t work this time. Ron was going to pummel Harry to a pulp, no matter whose fault it was.

The raven-haired Gryffindor boy sat silently on his bed and shut the curtains, waiting as the sun went down and gradually left the room in darkness. After half-an-hour of waiting, Harry realized that Ginny probably wasn’t going to run to Ron right after she broke up with her boyfriend, so Harry heaved a sigh and pulled out his Transfiguration text and began reading over a few chapters he had skipped last month.

            A few minutes later the door to the dormitory opened, and Harry jumped a mile. As it turned out, it was only Seamus. Harry stayed silent behind the curtain, and Seamus rustled around the room quite a bit before he started making groaning noises, which was when Harry realized that he was obviously masturbating over some of his fetish magazines. Harry wrinkled his nose and tried to ignore the explicit sound effects that floated through his curtain, but he wasn’t very successful. Thankfully, the ordeal was over in a few minutes, and Seamus left the room without ever knowing that someone had overheard him.

            Thirty minutes later the door opened again, and Harry stifled a startled gasp. This time, however, it was only Neville. So Harry stayed behind his curtains and waited for his round-faced roommate to leave the room. Much to his chagrin, however, Neville got into his own bed and drew the curtains. For ten minutes there was no noise—actually, there _was_ noise, but it was so quiet that Harry thought it was merely Neville shifting on his bed. But a little groan and a gasp from behind Longbottom’s curtains was all Harry needed to hear before he realized that Neville, too, had been masturbating, though a lot more quietly than Seamus. Afterwards, Neville traipsed into the bathroom, and a few minutes later he too left the room. Harry tutted to himself and cursed the amount of distractions that filled the boys’ dormitory.

            At around 9:00 Harry put away his Transfiguration book and began writing an essay for Charms. At the same time, the door opened suddenly, and Harry left a blot at the top of his parchment the size of his fist. As it turned out, it was only Dean Thomas. Like Harry’s other dorm mates, he also shut himself inside his four-poster bed. Harry tried to strain his ears to catch any signs of wayward noises. If he listened closely enough, he thought he could hear a grunt or the sound of slippage, but perhaps it was just his imagination. Whatever Dean was doing on his bed, he was out of the room in fifteen minutes as well, leaving Harry alone for the fourth time that evening.

            As Harry finished up the essay, he began to grow sleepy. Welcoming the natural invitation to avoid facing Ron for another day, he let his head fall to his pillow even before could put the paper in his bag.

 

*********

 

            “Harry! Harry!”

            Hours later, Harry got a rude awakening as someone slipped through his bed curtains and shook him repeatedly on the shoulder while hissing into his ear.

            “Harry!”

            _“What?”_ he groaned, rolling onto his Charms essay.

            “Wake up, Harry.”

            “Ron?” Harry was suddenly wide awake, and in one second he had retreated against the headboard with his palms raised upward to shield the blows from Ron’s fist.

            The only thing was, the blows never came. Instead, Ron gave him a weird look and said, “What’re you doing?”

            “Just get it over with,” Harry squeaked, squinting his eyes shut.

            “Get what over with?” Ron said mildly.

            “Beating me up,” Harry replied faintly before he retreated even deeper into his pillow.

            Ron’s face dawned with comprehension. “Ah, so you’ve broken up with Ginny,” he figured. “Finally.” He swung his fist at Harry’s head but stopped an inch away. “Ha ha, made you flinch.”

            “Wait, what do you mean by _finally_?” Harry said, his face wrinkling in confusion. “I don’t get it—aren’t you supposed to be mad at me?”

            “I don’t see why I should be mad,” Ron replied, “except you did draw it _waaaay_ out. That was mean of you: You should have broken it off a month ago when you two realized it wasn’t working.”

            “But…” Harry stammered, slowly inching forward. “But aren’t you going to beat me up or something? Don’t you always do that?”

            “Ah, that was a thing of the past,” Ron said casually. “Ginny’s a big girl; she doesn’t need me policing her boyfriends. Though if you really want, I could ask her if she’d like me to beat you up.”

            “Oh Merlin, no!” Harry said quickly. “Right now she’d probably encourage you.”

            “Yeah, well,” Ron huffed. “You _did_ string it out rather painfully. It’s no wonder she’s so upset with you. I’d have socked you across the ear if I was her.”

            Harry managed a tiny smile through his wide, worried expression. “So… so everything’s still cool? You aren’t like mad at me or something?”

            “Hey,” Ron said, pummeling Harry’s shoulder a little, “my relationships with you and Ginny aren’t dependent on how you two get along. She’s my sister, and you’re my best friend. As long as you go back and apologize to her for being such a git, we’ll get along fine.”

            “Yeah,” Harry said hesitantly, not liking the idea of facing Ginny again. “Yeah, okay… So why did you wake me up in the first place, if it wasn’t to beat the shit out of me?”

            “Oh, I was going to go skinny dipping,” Ron said brightly, “and I was looking for someone to join me.”

            For a long moment the room was silent. The snores from the other three boys seemed especially loud. A stray leaf blew flat across the window and whispered naggingly against the glass. And Harry sat in his bed and goggled at his best friend. “Ron!” he hissed. “Are you crazy? It’s freezing outside!”

            “Nah, it’s actually pretty warm tonight—for November, that is. Five degrees above freezing.”

            “You’re insane?” Harry whispered, keeping his voice down so as not to wake the others. “That’s cold as hell!”

            “And that makes no sense,” Ron whispered back. “Hell is pretty damn anything but cold. Now stop being a baby and go with me. I’d be lonely going all by myself, and there’s really no point if there’s no one to share the crazy moment with.”

            “Hey, I’ve had my moments before, but I’m not _that_ crazy,” Harry said. “I take after Dumbledore in terms of magical power, _not_ in terms of depraved senility.”

            “What’s so senile about jumping in a lake at 2:00 in the morning?” Ron asked reasonably. “If anything, it proves how much of a man you are to brave the elements. You _do_ want to prove you’re brave, don’t you?”

            “I killed Voldemort!” Harry said loudly, and Ron shushed him. “You can’t get much braver than that.”

            “Then this should be a walk in the park,” Ron promised. “I mean, look at it logically: first there’s jumping naked in a lake in late autumn at night, then there’s the Cruciatus curse. Which one is worse?”

            “ _Why_ does everyone assume that the Cruciatus is automatically the more painful option!” Harry lamented, throwing his hands in the air.

            “Uh… because it is?” Ron said, laughing.

            “But I took that Cruciatus curse for a reason!” Harry argued. “I was dueling with Voldemort over the fate of the Wizarding World, and I couldn’t afford to fold under pain, even if it was worse than hell. If I hadn’t been able to bear it, then we wouldn’t be here now. Or worse, you’d all be his slaves, and Ginny and Hermione and Luna would have all been raped a thousand ways to the year 3000. But skinny dipping? There’s no point to it! It’s _needless_ pain.”

            “Needless?” Ron scoffed. “No point? Harry, let’s look at this from a proper angle: You never grew up in a proper home. You lucked out with the fucking Dursleys, and it’s a wonder you didn’t become a bitter young man after the way the treated you. Because of that, and because of the way _my_ family treated you, you’ve always wanted a family of your own.”

“Hey, now,” Harry said uncomfortably, “your family’s amazing. I love you all.”

“I know that,” Ron said. “But, as amazing as we undoubtedly are, we’re not your flesh and blood. And I _know_ you long for that. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way your face glows every time you look at baby pictures! You want kids, and you want lots of them.”

            Harry rubbed his palm around the bedspread and jiggled his foot and tried to still the tremble in his lip. “Well, of course I want that!” he said. “But what the hell does that have to do with us going skinny dipping?”

“When you’re surrounded by them,” Ron said with deathly seriousness, “your kids and your grandkids, and they ask for a story, which will they like more? Hearing about you suffering under the Cruciatus or laughing over your mad skinny dipping escapade that took place past midnight on the verge of winter?”

            Half a minute later, the two of them were heading down to the Common Room, completely naked—Ron had insisted they go nude from the get-go, thus adding to the element of the forbidden. Harry had agreed after much protesting, but even now he was still wondering why he let himself get into this situations.

            “There’s no one in the Common Room,” Ron whispered gleefully as he peeked through the doorway at the bottom of the spiral staircase. “C’mon, let’s make a dash for it!”

            Harry shivered a little in the cool night air. “Are you sure you don’t want me to pop back upstairs and get the Invisibility Cloak?”

            “Don’t be silly, mate,” Ron laughed. “What kind of excitement in there in that?”

            Harry was about to point out that the walk from the dormitory to the Common Room was too much excitement to handle already, but then he suddenly remembered that using the Invisibility Cloak would involve his naked body pressed up against the naked body of his best friend, so he kept his mouth shut.

            Ron was the first to make the dash across the Common Room. Harry followed shortly after, his stomach squirming nervously as he felt the heat from the fireplace against his bare skin. He reached the portrait hole in four seconds flat, then hissed desperately at Ron, “Quick! Let’s get out of here before someone comes downstairs to check out the noise!”

            So they ducked out through the portrait hole and into the empty halls of Hogwarts. They had a view of a couple flights of stairs and a number of adjoining hallways, and while they saw no living being in any direction, the place still felt unnervingly alive. Most of the portraits were sleeping, but a stippled night owl flew down the walls, and a group of young vagrants played a game of poker in one grimy painting a couple yards down from Gryffindor Tower.

            “Remind me again why we’re doing this,” Harry said grumpily as he took the stairs at quick clatter.

            “For the heck of it, why else?” Ron replied. “Why do we need a reason for everything?”

            “Well, I guess we don’t,” Harry said doubtfully, “but this is just… weird! You would’ve never done this before. A month ago, you’d have considered running through the halls of Hogwarts in the nude as an assault on your manhood.”

            “The only thing assaulting my manhood right now is these damned drafts!” Ron said, chuckling at himself as they found the staircase that led down to the Entrance Hall.

            “I’m being serious here!” Harry groaned. “You’ve changed recently. You can’t deny it.”

            “I have,” Ron said, slowing his pace but not stopping.

            Ever since Ron had given up his macho front, Harry and Ron recognized the change but never addressed it, preferring instead to come to an unspoken agreement that they were still best friends and that they’d remain so. But there was one question of burning curiosity that Harry just _had_ to bring up. So he caught up with Ron, grabbed his shoulder, and stilled the both of them. “Ron,” he said slowly and carefully, “are you gay?”

            Ron looked directly into his best friend’s eyes and said, easily but firmly, “No.”

            “You’re not gay,” Harry clarified, though there was still the hint of a question in his tone. “So this change in attitude isn’t you coming out of the closet…”

            “Depends on which closet you’re talking about,” Ron said. “No, I’m not in the homosexual closet, and I never have been. But for the longest time I was in another closet—a personality closet, I suppose you could call it.”

            “What does that even mean?” Harry asked intently.

            Ron continued walking down the stairs, though this time his pace was unhurried. “Well… I was hiding behind a fake version of me because I was scared that people wouldn’t appreciate my real personality. Growing up in a household of six boys, the idea of the manly man was highly revered in my family, at least among my dad and my brothers. I mean, Bill is a manly man—he breaks curses for a living, and he has a freakin’ earring and long hair! Then there’s Charlie, who works with dragons. Fred and George are totally wild and run a joke shop, which isn’t the same type of manly as taming dragons, but it certainly is manly nonetheless, in a crazy sort of fashion. Even Percy… Well, he isn’t exactly tough and ‘manly,’ but he is at least conventional and hard working. We spent all our childhoods being manly: We played Quidditch and wrestled and dared each other to do crazy things and belched and farted and made crude jokes. And you know what? It was fun—it really was.”

            “But…” Harry supplemented.

            “But, well… what I didn’t like was when one of us did something that could be considered ‘girly’—you know, helping Mum with the cooking or the cleaning, or playing dress-up with Ginny, or crying over anything at all—the others made it out to be an act deserving of endless ridicule. I made breakfast in bed for Mum and Dad once, and I put on an apron and everything, and for the rest of the day Fred and George kept offering to enroll me in Home Ec courses in the local secondary school.”

            “That… sucks,” Harry said lamely, wishing he was better at comforting people than he was. “Your brothers shouldn’t have done that.”

            “Ah, they all grew up,” Ron said heavily. “They were only boys, after all. But then I was in Hogwarts surrounded by a _hundred_ immature boys and girls, and once more I felt the pressure to conform to the male stereotypes. It wasn’t bad most of the time—heck, I love playing Quidditch and grossing myself out over Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavored Beans. But it really rankled when I had to quash my inner sensitivity and act boorish. In fact, to fit in with the other boys around here, I had to be kind of a dick.”

            “So I guess you got sick of it.”

            “Duh,” Ron said, managing a chuckle. They had reached the Entrance Hall and were now heading for the double doors that led to the cold outside. “I was furious when Dumbledore made me do the makeup and Hufflepuff. I was already insecure about my masculinity, and I was afraid this would be the death blow on the very thing my family has valued since I was old enough to remember their faces. But as I got into the role, and as I discovered how gratifying it was to help Clifford gain some confidence, I finally realized that I’d be happier if I quit my macho front and braved whatever misconceptions people made of me. I know now that true masculinity comes from doing what you feel is right and not being ashamed about it, no matter what anybody thinks.”

            “Yeah, about that,” Harry said sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to assume things about you just because of the way you acted. I was just… well, curious. I mean, I would have been totally fine if you were gay, but I just wanted to know, just to be sure… Merlin, I’m screwing this up, aren’t I?”

            Ron laughed heartily, pulled open the doors, and pushed Harry out into the cold night air. “Worry not, Harry,” he said. “It’s all forgiven.”

            “Holy fucking Merlin!” Harry yelped as the frigid night air hit his skin. “Wanking raping ballsack! Ron, it’s cold as frozen fuck! Why the hell did you want to do this?”

            Ron skipped out into the open and shut the double doors behind him.  He relished a shiver and said, “Man oh man, what a night! Doesn’t this make you feel alive?”

            “It makes me feel like I’m about to freeze to death!” Harry retorted, bending at the waist to get his chest closer to his knees. Ron ran down the path and plucked up a stick, then ran back up and whacked Harry across his protruding bottom.

            “OW!” Harry shrieked. “Ooh, Ron, you’re in for a world of hurt now!” And, picking up his own stick, he chased after his red-haired friend. They ran down the steep, rocky path that led through the grounds before they turned onto the grass and ran to the edge of the lake, hollering gleefully in the night. Neither one was particularly worried about someone coming out and finding them, as there were plenty of owls and wolves adding their own contributions to the night’s noisy soundtrack. The odds of a teacher hearing their yelps and then actually trudging outdoors to find them were rather slim.

            When they reached the beech tree by the edge of the lake, however, Harry and Ron were in for a rough shock. Someone stepped out of the shadows and turned to face them, whispering softly, “Well, well, well, what have we here?”

            Harry froze in shock. Suddenly he was acutely aware of the cold night air against his bare penis and buttocks. Inwardly he groaned, and outwardly his face fell. He was hard-pressed to imagine any situation more embarrassing than being caught outdoors naked in the middle of the night—with another boy, no less. He was mentally counting the number of detentions it would take to appease such a breach in the rules, hoping desperately that this wouldn’t lead to expulsion.

            Then the person stepped out from the shadows, and everything changed. It was Luna Lovegood. She was dressed into a pale pink chemise cut low at the neckline and barely long enough to reach the middle of her thigh. It being a cold night and the nightgown being so thin, every single line of Luna’s body stood out clearly beneath her garment. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, but if the cold affected her, she didn’t seem to care. The smile that already graced her sweet face spread even wider as she gazed at Harry in his nakedness. He would have gladly fought Voldemort a second time in exchange for disappearing on the spot right now. The blush that inflamed his cheeks felt especially warm in contrast to the cold night air.

            “Hi hi hi there, Luna,” Ron trilled, utterly unfazed. “What’re you doing out here?”

            “Besides admiring Harry’s breaktakingly naked form?” Luna said. Harry whimpered a little and considered covering his privates with his hands, but then he realized that the damage was already done: Luna knew what his penis looked like, and he couldn’t reverse that. It was best just to take it like a man and not look like a humiliated pussy. “I originally came out here to air my armpits and to kill any stray Wizarding Lice that might be on my body. They can’t survive temperatures below 10 degrees Centigrade.”

            “But Wizarding Lice is really, really rare for anyone over the age of ten,” Ron said, frowning at her.

            “Extra precautions never hurt,” Luna replied, wagging her finger at Ron. “I’m glad to see you two are doing the same thing.”

            “Actually,” Ron said, “we came out here to skinny dip in the lake. Want to join us?”

            “Sure!” Luna crowed, her face glowing. “Let me just take off my chemise.”

            And, before Harry had time to properly process what was happening, she slipped the garment off over her head and let it fall to the ground.

            Harry’s brain exploded. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. The moment the image of her naked body transmitted itself to his brain, he lost control of his own body. His jaw dropped and his eyes bugged, and his penis immediately began to harden.

            How to describe Luna? She was brilliant. Today’s play practice had been a tantalizing teaser of something more to come, but this—the real deal—was far better than Harry could have imagined. Luna’s breasts were even more wondrous than her bra had hinted: they were not too large and not too small, but a size in between that looked like a perfect fit for Harry’s twitching hands. Though it came as no surprise that Luna’s nipples were hard—after all, thanks to the night air, so were Ron’s and Harry’s—it was no less of a turn-on for the raven-haired Gryffindor. These breasts curved gently around the gently muscled line that divided her stomach down the middle and led down to the last remaining mystery her body had to offer. Harry’s gaze dropped down to this mystery and surveyed it with wide eyes, imagining it involved in various erotic situations.

            What really completed Luna’s beauty, though, was who she was. Harry wasn’t just staring at a naked woman as he had been with his porn. Here, he was staring at a beautiful naked body that adorned the outside of a young woman with a lively personality that was far better than any boob or vagina. Between those two breasts beat a heart that sustained the looniest person—and the most attractive—that Harry had ever met. It was the sight of her awesome nakedness that filled Harry’s penis and prostate with a tingling excitement, but it was the realization of her perfect self that connected his member to his heart and filled it with such a joy that he felt weightless.

            Any thoughts that Harry’s penis was entertaining in terms of a full-blown erection, however, were sadly shattered when Ron grabbed him around the stomach and hurled him into the lake. “In you get!” he said gleefully as Harry wailed in shock. Then he sprinted gleefully into the shallows, followed closely by Luna.

            “Th-thanks a f-f-fucking lot, Ron!” Harry spluttered through a mouthful of icy lake water.

            “No problem,” Ron returned gloatingly. “Whoooooo, this water’s ice!”

            “Y-you think?” Harry chattered. It wasn’t an eloquent response, but the water seemed to have shorted circuited the currents to his brain.

            “I can feel the lice dying as we speak,” Luna said, submerging herself slowly. For ten seconds she even dunked her head under, leaving ripples that hung in the moonlit water. Then she resurfaced, her skin glacially smooth with wetness. She smiled sweetly at Harry and let herself fall into the water so that she was floating on her back. Harry watched, enraptured, as her naked body shifted itself constantly in order to keep her on top of the water.

            “Hey Harry, what’s caught your interest over there?” Ron called from the shallows. He kicked forward and swam out to meet them.

            “Why couldn’t w-we have waited ‘til summer?” Harry whined.

            “That’s what I call redirection,” Ron said smugly. “Luna, I think Harry likes what he sees!”

            “I’m glad to hear that,” Luna replied from her floating position. “Tell him I like what I see, too.”

            “She says I’m sexy,” Ron told Harry.

            Harry snorted and splashed his best friend. “Tosser!” Ron retaliated with a swipe of his hand against the surface of the lake, and thus the water battle begun. They volleyed back and forth for quite some time as Luna circled them serenely on her back.

            Of course, this frolicking didn’t last for long. It was only five degrees above freezing, after all, and none of them wanted to catch hypothermia. So, five minutes later, Harry waded to the shore and got out, followed reluctantly by Ron and Luna.

            Last Christmas Remus Lupin had given Harry a gift to prepare him for the final battle. It was an invisible wand holster that attached itself to the wrist and kept his wand safely locked inside until Harry gave his hand a special little flick. He had found it indispensable in the months leading up to the battle, and it was furthermore a creature comfort in that he never had to worry about losing his wand the way he did during the Quidditch World Cup. He wore this holster now, and he summoned his wand into his hand, upon which he immediately cast a Drying Charm on himself.

            “Hey, cast one for me, too,” Ron said, traipsing up to Harry drenched in water. “I forgot my wand back at the dorm.”

            “Luna first,” Harry said, grinning twistedly. And he cast the charm for Luna while Ron pretended to sulk on the cold grass.

            “That was very sweet of you, Harry,” Luna said as she gathered up her chemise. It looked miniscule in her palm; Harry wondered how it had ever fit over her head, much less around her body.

            A second later they all began the trek back to the castle, dry but still cold. They took the pathway at a run, not stopping until they were back in the relative warmth of the Entrance Hall. There they huffed and chattered their teeth, out of breath and reeling from the difference in temperature.

            “Holy fucking Merlin!” Ron laughed breathlessly. “How’s _that_ for a midnight adventure?”

            Harry bent double and clutched the stitch in his side. He didn’t want to admit that he actually had a blast. Sure, it was cold as fuck, and sure it was embarrassing when Luna first ran into them, but it was most definitely an experience—a painful one, but one that Harry would tell his kids and grandkids years down the road. Damn, was Ron a canny bastard! As for Luna, Harry was prepared to send in a request to the Vatican to make her the Patron Saint of Nudity.

            They headed up the stairs, puffing heavily as their tired lungs got even more exercise. Then, when they reached the third floor, something horrible happened. Harry was the first on the landing, and he had just stepped into the hallway when he noticed that someone was already in the hallway: someone with a lantern and a decidedly adult appearance. He gasped and dove quickly back into the stairwell, causing Ron and Luna to run into him.

            “What the—” Ron began, but Harry shushed him.

            “I saw you!” the adult cried. It was Professor McGonagall. “Harry Potter, that was you. Come on out!”

            Harry moaned in agony, clutching desperately at his private places. Damn fucking _damn_ , why did he always run into professors at the worst possible moments? He considered running back down the way he came until he heard the Transfigurations professor speak again. “Stop hiding, Harry, you’re only making it worse for yourself!”

            Luna tossed Harry her chemise and winked. Harry moaned again, realizing the choice that lay before him: appear in front of McGonagall naked, or appear in front of her in Luna’s scant nightware. He chose the latter route in a heartbeat, cramming his head through the neckline of the skimpy garment.

            There were many problems with Luna’s chemise. First of all, as small as it looked on Luna, it was even smaller on Harry. There was barely breathing room for the the blonde Ravenclaw, but for him it was like a second skin. Every dip and curve in his muscles etched itself into the satin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Especially noticeable were his nipples, which were still hard from being outside for over a quarter of an hour. Harry marveled that they hadn’t already poked a hole through the filmy material. Worse still was this: Though the nightgown had come down to the middle of Luna’s thigh, Harry was considerably taller in the chest, and thus he hardly got coverage past his hips. If he stretched the material as far as it would go, it barely cleared the tip of his ballsack, though to achieve this his penis crammed itself desperately against the bottom of the chemise, leaving nothing to the imagination. Harry could even see where the skin wrinkled around the head. To complete the fiasco, the chemise was a pale pink. It looked drop dead sexy on Luna Lovegood, but on Harry it looked… well… gay. Or, to be more politically correct, like a straight cross-dresser. Which for him was actually worse.

            “Harry James Potter, you show yourself immediately!” McGonagall barked sternly. Her footsteps pattered down the hall, coming ever closer to the staircase upon which the three students hid.

            “Professor?” Harry said, stumbling strategically into the hallway. “Wh—what the—?”

            McGonagall came to a dead stop, flabbergasted at the vision that assaulted her senses. Her healthy cheeks drained white, then suddenly flushed brilliantly. Her knees knocked together, and her mouth formed a perfect O, from which emanated a matching, “ _Oh!_ ” For a full fifteen seconds all she could do was goggle at Harry, who blushed a magnificent red that clashed with the pink nightie. He would never be able to look Professor McGonagall in the eye again. Never. Fucking. Ever.

            “Harry Potter,” she finally whispered faintly. “What are you doing.” She seemed too faint to voice her phrase as a question.

            “Uh,” Harry stammered, racking his brain for an excuse. “Sleepwalking.”

            “You’re wearing a chemise,” she said, clutching at her breast. In her other hand she gripped a mug, unaware of the fact that she had tipped it so that tea leaked down the side and dripped on the floor.

            “Yeah,” Harry said, his palms growing sweaty. He wiped them on the chemise, only to realize too late that a millimeter of the head of his penis peeked out from underneath the hem. “I, uh… that’s what I, er, wear to bed.”

            “You must be freezing,” McGonagall said, her eyes dilating slightly. “Get back to bed. Go ask Hermione about sleepwalking patterns—I don’t want you catch the flu.”

            At this invitation, Harry legged it. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, away from his professor and up towards his dormitory. Along the way he ripped the chemise off over his head, realizing it had been a horrible mistake to wear it. Upon hindsight, he would have infinitely preferred that McGonagall catch him naked. Then, at least, she would think he slept in the buff, instead of in a negligee! Oh holy Merlin, he’d never live this one down!

            In five minutes he was at the portrait hole. “ _Arsus gangrenus_!” he wheezed at the Fat Lady.

            “Oh my!” the Fat Lady said appreciatively. “What have you been doing out so late?” She had been asleep when Ron and Harry had left.

            “Never mind, just let me in!” Harry snarled at her. “ _Arsus gangrenus! Arsus gangrenus!_ ”

            “Patience, you sexy beast,” the Fat Lady said, peeved. “Let me just… admire… your… form… for one second longer!” she drew out her speech so as to prolong her pleasure (and Harry’s embarrassment).

            “ _Arsus_ fucking _gangrenus!_ ” Harry hissed.

            “All right, all right!” she huffed, slowly swinging back on her hinges. Harry clambered through, followed a second later by Ron, who appeared from another route.

            “That was wild, mate!” Ron said, slapping Harry congratulatorily on the back. “What’d McGonagall do to—”

            They stopped short. For Harry, the night’s misfortunes were not yet over, because the Common Room was no longer empty, either. Hermione sat in an armchair by the fire, staring up at them from the book she’d been reading.

            Ron didn’t see this as a misfortune, however. He traipsed jovially over to Hermione and said, “Hey, I didn’t know you were still awake!”

            “I was in the library working on my Arithmancy project,” Hermione said. She furrowed her brow and surveyed her two naked friends. Harry whimpered and clutched the chemise to his penis. “What’ve you two been up to?”

            “Skinny dipping!” Ron said excitedly, flopping into the armchair across from her. “Out in the lake in weather five degrees above freezing! It was crazy!”

            “Oh,” Hermione said softly, looking disappointed. “You could’ve invited me, you know.”

            “I thought you were asleep,” Ron said, “and let’s face it: you really need your rest! How long have you been working on that project exactly?”

            “Harry, stop being a baby and get over here!” Hermione called over towards the portrait hole. “Believe it or not, I’m well aware of the fact you have a penis. Sorry, Ron. This project’s driving me up the wall, now that you ask. If only I could find some time to drop by Professor Vector’s for help, but I can’t, thanks to the play!”

            Harry scuttled over to an armchair beside Ron and sank into it, immediately drawing his knees forward to shield his penis. Hermione rolled her eyes. “Where did you get that chemise, Harry?” she asked him.

            “This?” Harry stammered. “Oh, er… it’s Luna’s.”

            Hermione clapped her hands together gleefully and closed her book. “Oh Harry, I’m so glad to hear that! You must tell me all about it!”

            And so Ron and Harry told her everything. Then they spent the rest of the night rehashing their best nighttime escapades with Hermione. They knew that next morning they’d be as exhausted as all fuck out, but for some reason they just couldn’t stop talking.

            It was all just as well. In Harry’s experience, some of the best conversations, just like some of the best adventures, happened when every sensible person had long gone to sleep.


	19. Some Very Hard Problems

As the week progressed, blocking for Act IV improved gradually. Although Harry still hated the play, it was a small comfort to be doing his nude scene opposite Luna Lovegood. In fact, if he just stared at her long enough, he could almost forget how much he despised Dumbledore right now for getting him into this mess. The other actors, however, seemed quite content with the way things were going. Loser and Eloise had an appearance in Scene Five as Xaxis’s wife and Olivier, and Dumbledore announced that they made the roles look effortless, they were so spectacular. In fact, in every scene featuring Loser, he transported Dumbledore to cloud nine. “I do hope you all will trust my casting decisions in the future,” the headmaster said joyfully. The cast chuckled lightly (except for Harry), and even Draco admitted that he was getting into his role a little.

            In various other places in England, however, the parents had no such luck. They decided to spend the entire week doing research into the school statutes and Ministry law in an attempt to find a loophole that would get the play banned. They met up on Friday at Malfoy Manor to go over their progress.

            “We have only two weeks until this play opens,” Ivana said fiercely, glaring down at the parents who surrounded her in the grand ballroom. “Between now and then, we must find legal grounds on which to stop the whole thing.

            “Sweet, sweet Ivana,” Xenophilius cooed from his armchair, “we’ve been looking through the _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Canon_ for the last week, and we still haven’t found anything. What makes you think another week of searching will help us any more?”

            “I refuse to let this rest, Mr. Lovegood!” Ivana squawked furiously. “How dare you insinuate that it’s time to give up?”

            “Call me Xenophilius, please,” he replied. “And I only endeavor to be realistic in all things.”

            “Which I suppose is why you write about the Frapple-dee-doo-dah and the Bug-dug-a-bugga-bomp,” she returned scathingly.

            “If you mean the Frizznurple and the Buggermumsbumbugs, you are right.”

            Ivana’s face twisted into an ugly glare indeed, and she turned away from Xenophilius and hissed, “I cannot bear to be around you. I cannot stand the very sight of you.” To the parents she cried, “Don’t listen to Mr. Lovegood—”

            “—Xenophilius,” he corrected her—

            “—Don’t listen to him! He is a dissenter and a foul old man!” The other parents didn’t respond except to inconspicuously avert their gazes from the arguing pair.

            “Hey, I’ll bet I’m not as old as you,” he argued, “and I’m certainly not as foul.”

            “Oh?” Ivana cried, her voice swelling into booming fury. “You’re the one who’s letting your own daughter go nude onstage for five hundred people to see! I call that foul, and I call that _atrocious_ parenting!”

            “ _Atrocious_ parenting,” Xenophilius said, mimicking the obscene nag in Ivana’s voice, “would be letting Luna have sex onstage — either that or trying to get her out of the play entirely. I prefer a middle ground.”

            “A nude scene is not a middle ground!” Ivana railed at him. “Mr. Lovegood, are you on our side, or are you not?”

            The other parents, who had been fidgeting on the edge of their seats throughout the verbal duel, couldn’t help but turn their uncomfortable eyes back towards the spectacle before them.

            “Call me Xenophilius,” he repeated. “And I am on the kids’ side. That _is_ the right side to be on, I presume. Methinks that’s why we started this PTA in the first place—to make things better for our kids.”

            “Of course we’re on the kids’ side,” Mrs. Creevey piped up nervously. “That’s why we’re trying to shut down the play in the first place.”

            “But the kids clearly want to continue acting,” Xenophilius disagreed. “They must make their own choices, you know.”

            “No, they _mustn’t_ ,” Ivana said fiercely. “Kids are stupid. They don’t know what’s best for them; we do.” The other parents nodded in timid agreement.

            “Naturally,” Xenophilius said, somehow maintaining the light touch in his voice while ladling it full of sarcasm. “So when is the magic age at which kids automatically start thinking for themselves? Seventeen? If our reaction to this play is anything to go by, then obviously not. What about eighteen, when they’re out of Hogwarts? Is there something about being out of school that suddenly makes them go from sheltered, infantile creatures to self-sufficient, single-minded adults?”

            “You,” Ivana said, her voice so dry it cracked, “are mad. You’re suggesting we let our kids decide for themselves whether they participate in this play or not.”

            “Yeppity yep yep yep,” Xenophilius nodded. “It’s like you read my mind.”

            “But do you even realize what this play will do to them?” Ivana snapped, her voice suddenly fierce again. “All that sex and language! They’ll become little sluts!”

“Don’t forget the violence,” Xenophilius whispered.

            “And what happens when their morals become loose, and they start having sex, and our daughters become pregnant?” Ivana cried, ignoring Xenophilius’s insert. “What do you expect us to do, Mr. Lovegood? Stand by and say, _‘Oh, they’re making their own choices. This is part of their journey, just let them have the baby, even though they’ll have to drop out of school and become lowlife bums.’_ ” She upped her voice to a whiny pitch in a poor imitation of Mr. Lovegood.

            “They could get an abortion,” Xenophilius suggested mildly.

            More than a few of the parents gasped. The witches (most of whom had at least some idea what an abortion was) were especially shocked, but the Muggle parents were also put out at Xenophilius’s lackadaisical suggestion. “But abortions are _sinful!”_ Mrs. Creevey cried fervently.

            “Says the parent whose children are going to a school for witchcraft and wizardry,” he rebutted swiftly.

            “Get out!” Ivana cried, her hands clenching with rage. Xenophilius dodged a fleck of spittle that escaped from her bared teeth. “Get out, Mr. Lovegood. You contribute nothing to this organization except immorality and illogic. You are no longer needed here.”

            Xenophilius nodded understandingly and stood up with a measured gravity, his normal smile gone. The brightness in his eyes was now fierce and sure as he gazed at each parent in turn, before turning back to the woman in charge of it all. “My dear Ivana,” he said, “you mean to say that I am no longer _wanted_. But it is clear that I and my offensive opinions are most desperately needed.”

 

**********

 

            “So, Dumbledore, how’s practice progressing?” Professor McGonagall asked him as she poured herself an early morning cup of tea in the staff room.

            “Just spectacularly,” Dumbledore said happily. “This is the first Monday in a long time that I’ve not felt dead on my feet. Just eleven more days until the play! You’re all going, aren’t you?”

            The other teachers looked up from their places at the staff table. Professor Vector nodded silently and nursed her Firewhiskey. Snape scoffed and said, “As if I’d miss Potter’s day of humiliation! You know me better than that, Dumbledore.”

            “Speaking of Potter,” Minerva said eagerly, “I don’t think I’ve told Professor Flitwick about last week.”

            The tiny Charms professor puffed silently on a pipe that smelled strongly of weed and looked up at McGonagall with owlish eyes. She took this as an invitation to continue.

            “So I was up at 3:00 a.m. with a sore throat,” she said, “and I decided to take a walk to the Kitchens to get myself some more tea. On my way back, I ran into the most wonderful sight!”

            She waited, grinning widely, until Flitwick grunted, “What was it?”

            “It was Harry Potter…” she said.

            “He’s a brave young man to be sure—” Flitwick said before she interrupted him.

            “In a chemise.”

            The other people in the staff room rolled their eyes (except Dumbledore), as they had already heard the story half a dozen times. Little Filius Flitwick, however, stared at Minerva with only mild curiosity but a good deal of frank astonishment. Mostly he was astonished by how gleeful she sounded. “You gave him a detention, didn’t you?”

            “I was too busy acting displeased, Filius!” McGonagall said, laughing. “Acting displeased when you are in fact quite the opposite takes a lot of concentration, and consequently I forgot about detention. In fact, it was all I could do to stop myself from giving Gryffindor points for his hot, hot body, with the offer of more points if he stripped to his skin!”

            “Maybe you _should_ have given him a detention,” Snape said dryly, “so he could spend some time with the naughty, naughty Transfiguration professor.”

            “And you could have assigned him to some hard labor that would have made him drip sweat out of every pore,” Dumbledore added with a wry smile.

            “I didn’t think of it,” McGonagall said lightly. “But I _did_ summon a house-elf the second he ran off, and I instructed it to take as many photos of Harry as it could before he reached Gryffindor Tower.”

            Here she pulled out a small stack of photographs that all featured Harry running at top speed, his hands clutched around his penis and his bare bottom winking at the camera.

            “He took the chemise off,” McGonagall explained as she handed the photos to Flitwick. The midget looked at them for a second or two, then handed them back.

            “Wow,” he said, clearly not knowing what to make of the photos or Minerva’s behavior.

            “Have the rest of you seen these?” McGonagall asked, waving the photos around.

            “I have,” Professor Vector said, holding out her hand, “but I wouldn’t mind seeing them again.”

 

**********

 

            Harry rolled out his bed with a morning erection. He yawned a bit, then groaned a bit more as his sexual organ brushed against his thick bedspread. Grumbling a little, he plucked his wand off his bedside table and summoned himself a set of clothing.

            It had been one week since he broke up with Ginny. It had also been one week since he’d promised himself to stop masturbating, and one week since he came back to his dorm with Luna’s chemise. The nightie now lay under his pillow, and it still smelled faintly of the mystical Ravenclaw that had captivated his heart. It was so painful, feeling the silky smoothness of the garment against his bare hand—a bare hand that longed to reach over and give his morning erection a few pumps as his fervent imagination conjured visions of a naked Luna yet again. But he had strictly forbidden himself from any sexual activity until he earned it, and if there was one thing he was, it was determined. He wasn’t going to masturbate, and that was final.

            This mindset didn’t make his semen-filled prostate feel any better. Countless times this week he had reached to massage his penis in bed or in the shower, only to remember his damn pact. He sat in class and thought about the next time he could masturbate and suddenly realized he couldn’t. He lay awake at night praying that his dissatisfied penis wouldn’t give him a wet dream: He hadn’t had to deal with those since he started masturbating, and he didn’t want to go back to rushing to the bathroom in the middle of the night to wash off his sticky groin and change his soiled underwear.

            _Maybe just one quick wank_ , said a dissenting voice in the back of his head.

            _No_ , he told himself firmly. _No wanking, and that’s final!_ He just repeated that phrase in his head: _No wanking, no wanking, no wanking_. He didn’t bother to explain it to himself over and over again, because then the dissenting voice would try to combat the argument with sly little points of its own: _Why wait? What’s so terrible about a quick little jerk off? Just to save yourself from a wet dream? If it saves you from a wet dream, that’s a good thing, right? Right?_

            Harry went down to breakfast, where he promptly dove over to the Gryffindor table and sat down beside Ron and Hermione. Ginny was at the opposite end of the table, fuming all by herself. He did his best to ignore his ex-girlfriend, while at the same time avoiding any eyes from the Ravenclaw table as well.

            “So, Harry,” Hermione said, “what’s going on with you and Luna?”

            To tell the truth, Harry had been avoiding Luna for the past week. They had acted onstage during practices, and that had gone okay, but other than that he hadn’t met up with her for more than a few seconds. “I… dunno…” Harry mumbled. Well, he _did_ know: He was crazy about her, and he was pretty sure she was crazy about him.

            “Are you with her yet?”

            “No,” Harry said, blushing a little.

            “Why not?” Ron said, joining the conversation around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “You’ve wanted to be with her ever since you started ignoring my sister.”

            “Yeah,” Harry said, too agitated to pay attention to the obvious barb. “But now I’m all nervous. I’m afraid if I try to ask her on a date, I won’t even be able to get the words out of my mouth.” He was terrible at reading girls, there was no denying it. How much harder, then, would it be to read someone as crazy as Luna? He had failed with girls many times before—maybe this was another failure in the making.

            “C’mon, Harry, that’s ridiculous!” Ron laughed. “If that’s all the problem is, you should’ve told me earlier. Hey, Luna!”

            “Nonononono!” Harry squealed, waving his arms at his best friends. “What d’you think you’re doing, Ron?”

            “Luna, come over here!” This didn’t come just from Ron, but from Hermione as well. Harry glared at both of them, but they motioned towards the blonde Ravenclaw until she stood up and meandered over to their table.

            “Yes, Ron and Hermione?” she asked. “You have a question?”

            “Harry wants to ask you something,” Ron said.

            “Okay,” Luna said, turning to the stammering Harry. “I love the Heebripple Communicatizing Device, by the way. I’ve used it every day since you’ve given it to me.”

            “ _Eep_ ,” came the reply.

            “They say you have a question for me,” Luna said, “but so far you don’t seem to be saying much. Nargle got your tongue?”

            Harry squinched his eyes shut, then opened them again. This question was just too hard to ask, really, it was! It had been bad enough with Cho and even harder with Ginny, but when it came to someone as amazing as Luna, it seemed nearly impossible! What if she laughed at him for even thinking they belonged together? “Will you go out with me?” But no, that was ridiculous—she had been hinting at this for the past month. Wait… had the question come out of his mouth already? Had he actually—

            “Of course, Harry darling,” Luna said, her face breaking into a delighted grin. “Anything else you want to ask me?”

            “Wanna be my girlfriend?”

            Had that also come out? Harry didn’t rightly know, as he was still too loopy with success to think straight.

            “Naturally. Now where shall we go on our first date?”

            “Um…” Ooh, Harry hated thinking up places to go on dates. He didn’t know anywhere good, and he was always worried that the girl would be disappointed by his final pick.

            “We don’t get a Hogwarts weekend until after the play anyway,” Luna interjected quickly. “Just sit on it for a while. Talk to the Heebripple if you’re stumped.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Harry said, suddenly light-headed. The full weight of what had just done was now sinking in. He had asked Luna to be his girlfriend! He had risked rejection and gotten away with his life! He hadn’t done something so life-threatening since he’d killed Voldemort. “Yeah. And… if I have trouble finding the Heebripple, er, would you mind helping me?”

            “I would love to,” Luna replied lightly. She took a seat beside Harry and said, “Mind if I join you all? The Cockmice are a lot less ticklish when I’m not alone.”

            “Sure, make yourself comfortable,” Hermione said, looking a bit discombobulated over the idea of Cockmice. She didn’t dare ask what they were.

            A moment later, someone coughed nervously behind them, and the four of them turned around and saw Goyle. “Um,” he said nervously. “Um, Hermione… So Malfoy and Crabbe haven’t come up yet, so I just want to ask you a question about… about the play.”

            “Sure,” Hermione said. “Come join us.”

            “Er,” Goyle said, twitching a little, “do you guys mind?”

            “Sit down,” Ron said generously, scooting towards Harry so that Goyle could slip nervously into the seat beside Hermione. Ron smirked at the pair of them and gave Harry and Luna a wink. Harry shrugged his shoulders, nonplussed, but Luna grinned and winked back.

            The five of them passed an amiable breakfast in conversation. Nothing of consequence happened after that, but it sure was nice to make new friends with people from other houses. None of them except for Luna noticed that Dumbledore grinned at them over his glass of vodka-spiked pumpkin juice. She gave him a conspiratorial smile, which he returned with an eye twinkle.

 

**********

 

Monday afternoon marked the first dress rehearsal for the play. It went okay—there were a few mistakes, a few missed cues, a few forgotten lines—but overall it wasn’t a disaster. Dumbledore still didn’t make Luna and Harry get naked during their now infamous scene, so Harry managed to suffer through it with a smile on his face, but a huge knot grew in his stomach as he realized that, in one-and-a-half weeks, he’d be in this very same position, sans underwear, in front of five hundred people. Hadn’t those parents marched over to school during play practice earlier this month and demanded the play be stopped? What happened to them? Why weren’t they here now, finishing what they had started?

            What with the slight mistakes and delays, the play currently clocked in at 2 hours and 30 minutes. “Once we get everything ship-shape, it’ll be at the two-hour mark,” Dumbledore told them. “We have four more dress rehearsals to get everything perfect, and from now until then I expect you all to keep going over your lines, even though you feel like they’re carved into the folds of your brain already. Also inhabit your roles—outside of this Great Hall, act like the characters you portray. Master Longbottom, you must act cunning and artful: Look into things that you are currently accepting with a blind eye. Master Clifford, be brave like Olivier: Don’t let anyone force you to do what you feel is wrong! Master Malfoy… ah, you’re alright, you were practically like Gryffindor from the beginning. Except for the brave part: Try to be braver.”

            And on this went. As Dumbledore continued his incessant prattling, some of the students became disinterested. Most notably, Susan Bones had slowly drifted away from Edmund’s side and was now standing beside Draco Malfoy. Every few seconds she’d turn towards him and give him a sidelong glance, and each minute or so she’d accompany it with a wink or a flicker of her tongue. After five minutes of this treatment, Draco finally turned towards her and licked his lips, surreptitiously and slowly. She gave a girly little gasp and touched her throat with her slender fingers. The nails glowed red against her collarbone.

            From ten yards away Edmund saw his girlfriend standing next to Draco and brushing her elbow against his waist. He glared at the two of them, as if that was sufficient to send Susan running back to his side. As it so happened, she didn’t even notice him, and she probably wouldn’t have noticed him had he been the only other person in the room besides her and Draco.

            Edmund stomped through the crowd until he was only a few feet away from the pair. A couple of students had turned away from Dumbledore to watch the developing excitement. Draco and Susan, however, were not among them, as they were still tied up in their own flirting. Draco casually but knowingly scratched his balls, as if trying to dispel an itch, and Susan plucked at the low cut neckline that peeked out from beneath her open robes.

            Finally, Edmund could stand it no longer. “DRACO, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH MY GIRLFRIEND?” he screamed. He effectively drew everyone’s attention—including Dumbledore’s. The old man stopped speaking and looked down at the trio.

            “Ah, Miss Bones, how delighted I am!” Dumbledore cooed. “You’re acting your part, just like I asked.”

            “What?” Susan said, flustered. She had jumped half a mile when Edmund had yelled. Now she was shifting from foot to foot, her hands wringing blood red blushes into each other. “I—I wasn’t doing anything!”

            “You were flirting with Draco!” Edmund accused. “What’s the matter with you? You’re supposed to be mine! Can’t you see a good thing when you have it?”

            “Don’t go blaming her!” Pansy shrieked in protest. She had been in a foul temper ever since her breakup with Draco, mostly due to the fact that everyone thought she was exaggerating or even lying about Draco’s atrocious cheating habits. “Draco’s the one that’s being a whore. See, I _told_ all of you that he’s a complete slut, and none of you believed me!”

            “Hey, I wasn’t doing anything,” Draco lied in protest. “I swear I wasn’t. All I was doing was standing here minding my own business, and here comes Bones trying to flirt with me. I don’t even like her, I swear!”

            Susan stumbled backwards as if scalded. “What?!” she gasped, her hands flying to her throat again, though this time for a different reason. She looked like she was strangling. “But you said you… We did…”

            “Did what?” Edmund snarled, grabbing her roughly by the arm. “Did what, you bitch?”

            “We…” Susan was moaning now, her shoulders drawn inward and her legs pulling herself away from Edmund. “Oh, oh, oh, get off of me!”

            “Tell me what you did!” Edmund yelled at her.

            “Dumbledore, do something!” Hermione yelled in distress.

            “Let them work it out like adults,” Dumbledore replied cheerfully, grinning at the altercation below.

            “But they’re so immature!” Hermione retorted. She whipped out her wand and cried, “ _Relashio!_ ” The spell hit Edmund around the wrist and dragged him bodily away from Susan. He slid to the floor and landed at the bottom of the stage, a good thirty feet away from his soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend. Susan herself stumbled backwards towards the doors of the Great Hall, sobbing wetly through a gasping throat. She pushed her way through the crowd and ran from the hall.

            At this moment Edmund stood up, a bit loopy but angry as hell itself. He whipped out his wand and pointed it at Draco. “ _Infestae Gangrenus Arse!_ ” he shouted, showing an aptitude at curses that he didn’t display in other areas of his education.

            “ _Protego_ ,” Dumbledore said lazily, stopping the spell before it hit Draco. He then immobilized the seething Edmund and tut-tutted to himself. “My goodness gracious,” he said mildly. “For a scene involving two Hufflepuffs, that was mightily devoid of peace and loyalty. Shame on you both. And on you, too, Draco.”

            “But I didn’t do anything,” Draco lied again. From the other side of the room, Pansy seethed at him.

            “Be that as it may,” Dumbledore said, “I’m going to give you both detention. Edmund, you are to serve with Filch this evening. Draco, you are to go up to the North Tower right this instant and inform Professor Trelawney that you are spending two hours in detention with her.”

             Edmund couldn’t make any noise through his petrified state, but he managed to glare at the headmaster without moving his eyebrows. Draco, however, groaned loud and long, crying, “ _TWO HOURS?_ Two hours! Why the hell do you want me to spend two fucking hours with her?”

            “Just because,” Dumbledore said zippily. “Now off you trot. Shoo, shoo!” He waved Draco away. Still protesting loudly, the Slytherin trudged towards the door. When he left, the room of students was completely silent.

            Fifteen minutes: Perfect! Just enough time to fuck Trelawney and skiddaddle. Thirty minutes: That had happened once before, and he hadn’t liked it. But two whole clitting hours! Did Dumbledore know just the type of exquisite hell he was putting Draco through?

            _She’s going to read into this all wrong!_ Draco thought furiously as he stomped up a flight of steep stairs. _She’s supposed to be my sex object, not my lover! The only thing I love about her is her wrinkled pussy, her gaping arsehole, and her gummy mouth, and even then it’s only as a bizarre fetish. Other than that, she’s just a wackjob who sees crazy things and has no life. What the hell makes her think I’d actually love her?_

He reached Trelawney’s trapdoor in high dudgeon. The ladder descended just for him, but for a minute he stood at its bottom rung, groaning inwardly a thousand times over and dreading the next two hours of his life. Finally he balled his fists together and hissed at himself, “Oooh, just get this the fuck over with!”

            So, cursing his misfortune, he clambered up the ladder and into Professor Trelawney’s oppressive tower. A hundred burning candles, plus a roaring fire, filled the place with a heat stifling enough to send Draco into an instantaneous sweat. The Divination Professor sat in the middle of the room, stripped to the waist as she gazed at her crystal ball. Her neck craned forward like an insect’s, and her drooping breasts allowed her nipples to graze the glacial surface of the orb. Her eyes were dilated tremendously, and her hands trembled against her sagging mammaries.

            “Professor,” Draco said uncomfortably.

            Her head whipped up at the sound of her name, and for a moment she stared long and hard at Draco. Her eyes went in-out, in-out, her nostrils grew large, and her open mouth salivated. Then, without warning, she grasped the hem of her skirt and removed it clear from her body with one awesome tear. The panties came with it. “FUCK ME TO DEATH!” she shrieked, jutting her face towards the ceiling and exposing her undulating neck.

            Draco drew it out as long as possible. He performed an unnecessarily long striptease, but soon her yells got too much on his nerves, so he took his fist and plunged it wrist-deep inside of her. He half-expected it not to fit, but it did rather comfortably—too comfortably, in fact—and Trelawney orgasmed so hard that Draco could feel his teeth rattling. Once she finally calmed down, she dove between his legs and stuffed him eagerly into her mouth. However much he tried begged for her to take it slow, she didn’t, and in barely two minutes she was half-swallowing, half-choking on a mouthful of semen. Draco patted her on the back a few times, and she managed to get it all down without doing any harm to her throat or lungs. Then she pulled Draco down onto the sofa with her and let out a long, low sigh.

            _Two minutes for the striptease. One minute for the fisting. Two minutes for the blowjob. Oh, great: Five fucking minutes. Only 115 to go._ Draco sagged against the couch and wished he was dead.

            “Dumbledore says I have to spend two hours with you in detention,” Draco muttered with an ill temper.

            “Oh really!” Trelawney cried delightfully, grabbing him in a tight hug. “Oh, my sweet Draco, thank you so much!”

            “Hey, it wasn’t my idea!” he protested, fighting against her clawing grip.

            “You don’t know how much this means to me,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve never spent two hours alone with you before. Think how much we can talk about, how much we can do!”

            _I am going to KILL you, Dumbledore!_ Draco growled inwardly. _If I lose my mind and kill Trelawney, prepare to be the next victim on my way to Azkaban._ Aloud, he griped, “I came here at 5:44, so at 7:44 _sharp_ , I’m gone.”

            “But until then!” Trelawney said, running her bony fingers through his pubic hair. “Until then, we have the whole world in our hands!”

            “Yeah, okay,” Draco said dourly. “Now start sucking my cock.” He was soft as pudding right now and he had just ejaculated a minute ago, so maybe it’d take a good fifteen minutes of sucking before he came again. That’d put a dent in their time.

            It did. Once he was hard, Draco fucked Trelawney again, going slower and gentler than he had ever cared to go in his whole life. He reduced Trelawney to such ecstasies that she could hardly move for quivering so much. When he wanted to go for a third round, she was too much of a jelly to do anything more than gaze up at the ceiling. “If I orgasm once more, my body shall melt!” she breathed. “Let’s go to my bedroom instead and lay down on my bed. And then we can just _talk_.”

            “I like it better out here in the armchairs,” Draco groused as he picked a speck of semen from his pubes.

            “But I want the both of us to lie together,” she said, her eyes rolling upward into her head in pure bliss at the thought. “I want to spend hours talking to you, and then I want you to cradle me in your arms as we drift off to sleep. I want to sleep together for the entire night, then wake up in the morning as dawn drifts gently through the windows. Then we can summon a pair of house-elves, who will cook us breakfast in bed. We can skip class for the whole day and make love. Isn’t that a glorious idea?”

            Draco gagged at the thought. A whole day with Trelawney? And he thought two hours was a taste of hell! But all he said was, “I prefer this armchair.”

            “ _Please_ , Draco!” Trelawney pleaded, throwing herself violently to her knees. “ _Please_ lie in bed with me!”

            Draco marveled at her energy, wondering how she managed such passionate lunges without shattering her kneecaps. At the same time, he shrunk away from her in horror, rather like the way he’d retreat if a gigantic flying bug leaped out at him from an adjacent armchair. “Okay, then!” he said a bit furiously. “We can lie in the bed together.” He relented mostly because he was afraid Trelawney really _would_ break a bone if he didn’t give in, and he did not want to deal with levitating a naked Trelawney to the Hospital Wing at dinnertime.

            Trelawney was over the moon. Nearly hyperventilating with joy, she dragged Draco bodily into her bedroom, which amounted to little more than a cubbyhole with a fearfully-sloped ceiling and a long, low bed. A skylight window hung directly over the pillows, letting in a wealth of pure moonlight.

            “Ah, isn’t _this_ romantic!” Trelawney sighed orgasmically as they lay against the pillows.

            “Mmph,” Draco said crossly as he stared at the moon above them. He had often wondered what patients three hundred years ago had felt like when doctors had attached leeches to their bodies. Now he knew, and he knew why some things are better left to the imagination.

“Let’s spoon!” Trelawney suggested eagerly. “I’ll be the little spoon, and you be the big spoon.”

            _Fuck you, Dumbledore. Fuck you, Trelawney. Fuck you, Dumbledore. Fuck you, Trelawney._ Draco repeated this mantra over and over in his head as he spooned his naked body around Trelawney’s. He needed a focus to draw him away from the pain of her infuriating chatter, and this was marginally better than nothing. She let out a delicious sigh and snuggled her flabby arse into his soft penis.

            “Now let’s talk,” she said. “I’ll start. A week ago, I spent all my month’s salary on candles. Today, they came: all one thousand of them! And they’re so beautiful. They also have this lovely smell that makes me forget my troubles. You should buy some, Draco.”

            This was talk? This was torture! Draco had never longed so badly to keel over and die on the spot, not even when he was hiding in the castle during the final battle, convinced that Voldemort would kill the side of the Light and take over the world.

            Hell means many things to many different people. To Harry, it meant waking up at 5:45 every day and finding out it was Monday. To Hermione, it meant being surrounded by a bunch of Crabbe-like idiots without a single nook or cranny to hide in, nor a single book to escape to. To Dumbledore, it meant living with a bunch of totally normal people in a totally normal world and having to fit in with every single one of them. As for Draco, he was convinced that if he died and went to hell, he’d spend every day with Trelawney, lying beside her and talking, but never having sex. This was in addition to the lake of burning fire and the equation of eternity.

            It was bad. It was beyond bad. Draco had no idea how he survived the next hour-and-a-half. Maybe the sex around 7:15 helped break the chain of torture, at least a little bit. Anyhow, after an eternity the clock on Trelawney’s wall reached 7:44, and Draco shot to his feet.

            “Gotta go now, Professor,” he said quickly.

            “Stay just a little longer!” she wailed, following him as he ran into the classroom to put on his clothes.

            “No, I’ve got lots and lots of homework, and I want to do well in school!” he half-moaned. “Please, get off my back, I’ll come later!”

            And he was down the ladder. It had taken him only fifteen seconds to throw on his clothes and escape that hellhole tower. And now he never wanted to go back there for as long as he lived! _No more Trelawney,_ he told himself firmly. _I don’t care how blueball I go for the old pussy, I’m going to pretend like she doesn’t exist. There’s a hundred other girls in this school I can fuck: I should be able to get by without the old stuff._

 

**********

 

            As Draco suffered in Trelawney’s detention, the other students hung around the Great Hall to eat dinner after the rehearsal. Loser was about to take a seat next to Eloise Midgen at the Hufflepuff table when Dumbledore walked up behind him and grasped his shoulder in his bony hand.

            “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Midgen, I must borrow our esteemed battle hero for tonight,” Dumbledore said calmly. “I hope you don’t mind?”

            “Um,” Eloise said uncertainly. “Sure, go ahead. I… you’re the professor, what you say goes, sir.”

            “Too true, too true,” Dumbledore said. “Now come, Sir Olivier.”

            So Loser followed Dumbledore from the Great Hall and through the corridors of Hogwarts. “Where are we going, sir?” he asked Dumbledore nervously. “I’m sorta hungry.”

            “You’re going to have dinner in my office,” the headmaster replied. “Connie specifically requested your presence.”

            “C-Connie?” Loser queried, wiping away a thin line of sweat that grew on his forehead. Connie scared him! If their last meeting was any indication, she took great pleasure out of bullying him and generally making him feel like the Loser everyone said he was.

            “Yes indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Why are you dragging your feet? Battle heroes never lag behind.”

            Loser gulped a little and jogged to keep up. His armpits grew prickly as he worked up the nerve to ask a question that had been nagging him for quite a while. “Professor Dumbledore, sir,” he puffed, “wh-why do you always call me _Battle Hero_? I mean, it’s okay and all,” he added, speaking very quickly, “but you call the others _Master Potter_ and _Master Weasley_ and _Miss Granger_ and… and stuff like that. Why am I _Battle Hero_ or _Most Esteemed Battle Hero_ or… or…”

            “Because, my dear young man,” Dumbledore said kindly, “you, of all people, are the one that needs most to be in character.”

            As Loser pondered the old man’s answer, they reached the gargoyles that flanked the entrance to his office. He spoke the password in a loud voice that rang throughout the entire hall, “ _Penis-shaped lollipop_.” Then they stepped onto the revolving stairs that led them up to Dumbledore’s office. “The teachers can’t stand the password,” he told Loser conspiratorially as they waited to reach the door.

            “I’ll bet not,” Loser muttered. He enjoyed having a stab at dry humor, but he was so timid at it that he, let alone Dumbledore, could hardly hear himself.

            They entered the office and found Connie sitting at a round table set for three. “Well, hello, Albus!” she crooned. “Ah, you even brought the runt. Wonderful!”

            If Loser had expected Connie to act any more polite towards him with Dumbledore in the room, he was sadly misled. He backed away nervously from the table, but the headmaster ushered him into a chair before taking a seat himself.

            “How are you doing today, Loser?” she asked him conversationally, though her voice fell heavily on the last word. “Did play practice go well?”

            “Uh…” Loser whispered, ignoring the sautéed vegetables that magically appeared on his plate. “Uh…”

            “Well, did it or didn’t it?” Connie said impatiently. “Don’t just stand there gaping like a fish.”

            “Uh… um… it w-w-went fine.”

            “It _w-w-went_ _fine_?” Connie said, pulling off Loser’s stutter with an annoying perfection. “What exactly does _w-w-went_ mean?”

            “I-i-it means…” Oh no, he was stuttering again! A panic rose within him, as strong as when his mother had rebuked him in front of the entire school two weeks ago. He could never withstand attacks, either physical or verbal, and here Connie was attacking him, just like his mum always did. If he couldn’t win against one, he probably couldn’t win against the other, either!

            “What does is mean, Loser?” Connie said.

            Why didn’t Dumbledore do anything to stop her? She was his friend, and he should be responsible for the way she acted in his school!

            But wait, what had Ron told him? _“I can help, but in the end, it has to be you who brings out the strength in your character.”_ Also, _“If someone calls you Loser, don’t feel like you have to believe them.”_

            Loser repeated the words once more in his mind, then screwed his face together and counted to ten, trying to work up a streak of bravery and a witty rhyme. Connie’s gaze bore into him all the meanwhile, waiting as his vegetables grew cold. Meanwhile, Dumbledore ate heartily as if this conversation wasn’t even happening.

            “What’s the matter?” Connie said coldly after a minute. “Cat got your—?”

 

“Don’t call me Loser, ancient sodomite!

Now shut up, or else try to be polite!”

 

            Connie gaped at Loser, her mouth open wide. The fork that twiddled idly in her hands fell against her plate with a clatter. For a second Loser had thought he’d gone too far and truly offended her, but then he saw she was hiding a grin. Even Dumbledore was trying not to chuckle.

            “What else can I call you, Loser?” Connie said slowly. “I don’t care much for your last name, and I can’t _stand_ the name Clifford.”

            “My middle name is Oliver,” Loser said, glaring at her. To tell the truth, he liked his middle name better than his first—especially now that he was playing a battle hero with a similar name—but had been too timid to tell that to anyone, especially his mum.

            “Really?” Connie said, and Loser was surprised to see that _she_ was surprised—truly surprised. “Oliver? Is that… a family name?”

            “My grandfather’s name,” Loser explained, speaking quickly because his adrenaline was still high from talking back to Connie. “My great-grandfather was Clifford, as you already know, and my great-grandmum was Ivy. Despite him being crippled, they managed to have one son, and they named him Oliver. So… that’s my name. Clifford Oliver. My own mum used to be Ivy, but she changed it to Ivana.”

            “Wow…” Connie said softly. “That is to say, _wow_ … Your grandfather’s name really _is_ Oliver? Did you know that, Dumbledore?”

            “I might have, once upon a time,” Dumbledore said pensively, “but for some reason the significance escaped me. Hmm, that really shakes things up, doesn’t it?”

            Loser looked uncomfortably between the two of them. “Um, what’s the big deal?” he asked quietly. “Is it something bad?”

            “Fear not, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said, patting Loser on the shoulder. “We’ll tell you in good time. Just sit tight now and eat your dinner.” And he changed the subject.

            For the rest of the evening none of them mentioned Loser’s family, though he was still very curious as to the apparent significance behind his grandfather’s name. However, he managed to have a decent conversation with the two adults, as Connie forgave him for calling her a sodomite. If anything, she seemed to like Loser better for it, which was very odd.

 

**********

 

            Sybil Trelawney waited all Tuesday for Draco to come back to the North Tower. She fluttered about the room during her classes, resting on each chair for only a few seconds before she was pacing again, as overactive and excitable as one of the insects with which she bore such a similar resemblance. Her students constantly exchanged glances with each other and backed away when she brushed past them. She didn’t pay attention to them; however, she was ready to send them out at a moment’s notice should Draco come traipsing up the stepladder. However, he didn’t come.

            _I don’t understand_ , Sybil thought, perplexed. _He said he loves me. He said he’d come back soon! And I know he wants to spend time with me, because we were together a whole two hours on Monday evening, and he wouldn’t have been there if he hadn’t wanted to be. That whole story about detention was just that: a story! He loves me deeply, and he doesn’t quite know how to show it. That’s why he acts so irritable all the time—because he’s trying to express such vast emotions, and yet is incapable of doing so!_

There were two major flaws in Trelawney’s logic. Firstly, a woman’s idea of “I’ll come back later” was a lot different from a man’s idea. “Later” to Trelawney meant, _“Not now, but as soon as possible!”_ “Later” to Draco and pretty much every other male in Hogwarts meant, _“Once I get around to it.”_

            Secondly, Trelawney did not know about Draco’s determination to cut back on his old person fetish, particularly with anything involving a certain professor of Divination. When she woke up on Wednesday, Draco was happily ear-fucking Cho Chang in a broom closet on the second floor, any thoughts of old people flushed from his penis along with the globs of semen that dribbled down the Asian girl’s neck. Trelawney morosely set up a hundred candles around her room and lit them all. Then she canceled her classes, sending away each student as they arrived. The morning melted into the afternoon, which then slowly froze into a dark evening, and still Trelawney paced by the light of her candles, waiting for her lover to return to her once more.

 

~~~~~

 

            “Minerva?”

            “Yes, Albus?” McGonagall drank a cup of heavily-caffeinated tea, knowing she needed the energy for the stiff night of grading that lay ahead of her. She and Dumbledore were currently alone in the staff room after dinner on Wednesday.

            “Before you start on those masterpieces you call student essays, I need you to run this letter up to Trelawney.” The headmaster held out an enveloped sealed with milky-white wax that looked inexplicably vulgar.

            “You carry it up yourself,” Professor McGonagall retorted tartly. “It’s your letter.”

            Dumbledore hit the edge of the envelope softly against his palm. “Ah, Minerva,” he said lightly, “it’s a matter of some delicacy. I’d feel foolish handing it to her in person.”

            “Why?” McGonagall said sharply. “Seriously, Albus, why must you always appoint others to do your dirty work for you? Are you too high and mighty yourself that you can’t afford to get your feet muddy once in a while?”

            “I only wish this had to do with frolicking in the mud,” Dumbledore said regretfully. “However, it involves nothing of the sort. Please indulge me, just this once.”

            “No,” McGonagall said crisply. “I’m going to finish this cup of tea, and then I’ll grade my essays.” She lifted the cup to her lips and took a long sip of the burning liquid. “Ahhhhh, there’s nothing more glorious than a cup of Earl Grey in the evening.”

            “How about I refill your tea?” Dumbledore offered magnanimously, raising his hands to summon a house-elf.

            “That won’t work,” McGonagall rebuffed him. “I’m spending too much time on this cup as it is.”

             “Please, Minerva darling,” the headmaster wheedled, clasping his hands together. “For your dear ickle Albus, please?

            “No.”

            “I’ll buy you a cat toy.”

            A pause. McGonagall set down her teacup and turned to stare at her boss. “One that doesn’t squeak?”

            “I’ll buy you a cat toy that doesn’t squeak,” Dumbledore swore, his hand held up in oath. “Name any toy, and it’s yours.”

            “I want the snake chew,” McGonagall said immediately. “You know, the synthetic serpent that you can chew into pieces as it makes fully realistic death hisses. But once it’s all chewed up, it returns to its original state by magic. I have it circled in a magazine—I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”

            “Done,” Dumbledore replied, holding out the letter with one hand and holding out his other hand for McGonagall to shake.

            McGonagall shook and took the letter at the same time. Then she strode from the staff room, gleefully imagining how much fun she’d have chewing up a snake. Cat toys were one of the very few weaknesses she had, but so far she’d managed to get most of her collection for free by giving in to one of Dumbledore’s senseless requests every month or so. It kept the headmaster happy, and it kept her happy.

            Hmm… maybe next time she’d hold off until Dumbledore offered to buy her _two_ toys…

 

~~~~~

 

            _The next person I see will be Draco,_ Trelawney promised herself hysterically. The trapdoor to her tower was open, and the stepladder was down, waiting longingly for someone to clamber up its stiff rungs. _He’ll come tonight, and he’ll tear off my clothes and make love to me in the same heartwrenching way he always does! And it will be glorious! My orgasm will shatter my very existence, creating a new heaven and a new earth to match the new love I have for Draco, a love which grows more transcendent every day! The next person I see will be Draco… The next person I see will be Draco… The next person I see will be Draco!_

Then it happened: The stepladder shook as someone ascended to the smoky tower. Trelawney grasped her chest so roughly that her breasts popped out the front of her dress and hung down to her belly, hot and hard.  Her breath grew so rapid that specks formed before her eyes, and all she could make out were hazy shadows against the spheres of candlelight. One shadow was a person—Draco Malfoy, _her_ Draco Malfoy! She couldn’t wait for him to come to her—she had to go to him and knock him to the ground and ravish his youthful body with the eternal youth of her love!

            “FUCK ME TO DEATH!” she shrieked, slamming into the figure. “FUCK ME TO DEATH!” She tore away the person’s robes and pawed desperately at the curly pubes that she discovered beneath the waistline. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK! _DEATH, DEATH, DEATH!!”_

            Trelawney’s vagina was leaking like a faucet. Tearing her dress down the front, she slapped her flabby skin against that of her beloved partner, still screaming the name of Death and Fuck. Then she pulled away the person’s underwear and reached down to guide her lover’s penis into her fiery chasm.

            When Trelawney was a child she had stepped out of her treehouse, only to find that her sister had removed the ladder as a practical joke. Her foot had landed on thin air, and for a second all she could comprehend was a swooping horror before she fell from the tree and landed on the ground in a state of hysteria.

            Much was the same emotion Sybil experienced now. As she howled in ecstasy, she grasped the penis, only to find her hands closing on thin air. For a second her brain raced in distress as her fingers fumbled desperately for the hardened shaft, or at least for a floppy tube. All that she found was a mound of pubic hair that led into a chasm not unlike her own. “FU—” She stopped in mid-scream, which was when she finally realized that the other person was also screaming.

            The person wasn’t Draco.

            The person wasn’t a man. The person wasn’t even a student. In fact, it was none other than Professor McGonagall.

            “HELP!” Minerva shrieked in panic. “HELP! RAPE!” Not even on the battlefield had the Transfiguration teacher sounded so traumatized. Her breasts were bare and bruised, as was her belly and her vagina. A bit of Trelawney’s vaginal juice had even coagulated in her pubic hairs. “HELP! RAPE! _RAAAAAAAAPE!!”_

            “NO!” Trelawney wailed, horrified at her error. “NOOOO! DEATH, DEATH, DEATH!” From the table nearest her a crystal ball flashed a single solitary image, the same image it had flashed before: A figure in a pool of water, sunk dark and deep in the nighttime and surrounded by flames. “GET AWAY FROM ME!” Trelawney moaned, stumbling away from the gasping Transfiguration professor. “Don’t… Don’t!” She half-tripped, half-stepped down the ladder, and then fled down the stairs, leaving McGonagall’s cries of distress to trail behind her burning ears.

            Onward Trelawney ran, her breasts flapping in the cold night wind. She ran through the top levels of the castle until she reached the Astronomy Tower. There, she took the steps two at a time, still sobbing as loudly as her ragged lungs would allow. All around her students stumbled from behind statues, straightening their clothes and running away in fright from the crazy, half-naked teacher. Then she reached the outside balcony at the top of the tower. She dragged her feet all the way to the edge and gazed out over the ramparts.

_[SYBIL stands on the Astronomy Tower, watching the first drifts of snow that float down towards the Forbidden Forest. She sighs and sobs, her voice ragged. She flings her arms around in helplessness, but she is weary, so they flop more than they swing. Her feet falter against the stone. She is alone, all alone!]_

**_SYBIL:_ ** _[despondently]_

_Alone, all alone! Alone, alone, alone… My Draco will never return. Who now do I have to love?_

_[SYBIL looks down at the beech tree at the edge of the lake. Snowflakes flicker through the tangled branches and dissolve in the shallows. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY materializes beside her and stares out across the ramparts, pointing towards the single beech.]_

**_EDNA:_ **

_Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,_

_Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,_

_Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:_

**_SYBIL:_ ** _[in a lifeless whisper]_

_I cannot say what lads have come and gone;_

_I only know that summer sang in me_

_A little while, that in me sings no more._

**_EDNA:_ **

_Do you have any requests to make, Sybil?_

**_SYBIL:_ ** _[tears running down her face]_

_Spare me from this torment, Edna, please! Tell me how I must escape it! Or if you will not, leave me to my grief, for I can no longer bear to spread my anguish into the lives of others._

_[SYBIL slumps against the ramparts, her shoulders hunched sharply against the snowy sky and her hair hanging down to cover her shameful face. EDNA places a hand on her shoulder and leans in to whisper to her.]_

**_EDNA:_ ** _[very seriously]_

_Take a bath, Sybil—right now, tonight. You need one._


	20. This Mortal Coil is Quit

            First of all, one matter must be cleared up immediately: Hermione had suffered many sleepless nights, and she had thought that she had seen the worst of her Arithmancy project, but now she could say with all surety that it had all been nothing compared to Wednesday night.

            She got out of play practice at 6:00. She had a two-foot essay to write for Transfiguration, three recipes to create for Potions, another two-foot essay for Charms, a ten-page excerpt to translate for Ancient Runes, and a 150-page book to read for Defense Against the Dark Arts. To top that all off, she had to work on her Arithmancy project, as she had a mere nine days to complete it. Unfortunately, though, that was the day the play opened. This meant that Hermione would have gotten through her entire project without a single bit of help from the teacher.

            To give herself an extra thirty minutes, Hermione skipped dinner. Then she went to the library, stomach growling, and began her Transfiguration essay. This she managed to finish in an hour. She then decided to go easy on herself and picked up her Ancient Runes, as it was rote translation that involved no planning or composing. She had thought she’d finish this in an hour as well. But the translation went a lot slower than she had planned, and by 8:00 she had actually only gotten through three pages. Then Ron and Harry traipsed into the library with a teacher’s permission slip, eager to peruse the Restricted Section, and they made it a point to stop by and talk to Hermione. For a whole fucking hour. She loved her friends and all, but she had a shitload of homework, and that was a very valuable hour that they’d just thrown down the drain!

            She got back on task: 11:00 saw the end of the translating, so she switched gratefully to Potions. However, the calculations turned out a lot harder than she expected, so she spent a good portion of the next two hours gritting her teeth and tearing at her hair. Madam Pince had long since left the library, but Hermione, being very smart and head girl as well, was allowed to stay out past curfew. This privilege she miserably exploited, and at 1:00 in the morning she began her 150-page book. The words were tiny. Scratch that, they were fucking _microscopic!_ Did the publishers really expect her to have eagle-eye vision? Balling her fists, she resisted temptation to call for a house-elf to bring her chocolate, knowing that it would go against everything she preached in S.P.E.W.

            It was 4:00 when she finished that damn book. Fucking 4:00 in the fucking morning! She had class tomorrow, and she still had an essay to finish _and_ a project to work on! How could her teachers do this to her! Didn’t they realize that she other classes outside their own, not to mention a life as well? She moaned long and loud, and her stomach took the bass line with a growl.

            For a full minute Hermione considered skipping the essay and working on her project. She still needed to plan out her 10-parchment essay, and that would take a full day itself, never mind writing the entire damn thing in ancient runes! She needed to start on this fucking thing _right now!_ But her Charms essay was due tomorrow at 9:30, and she couldn’t stand to get a zero on it! What to do, what to do, what to do?

            Charms essay. Writing with big, loopy words, Hermione managed to fill two feet within forty-five minutes. She set it aside in despair, knowing that it was some of the worst tripe she had written since her first year, convinced that it couldn’t draw her more than a low A.

            So at 4:45 she began working on her Arithmancy project. The moment she began planning, she realized there was still a hole in her logic that needed some more research. At this moment, she couldn’t take it anymore. It was three hours and fifteen cunting minutes until her first cocking class, and she was still sitting in the library trying to start a clitting outline she should have finished four quimming hours ago! She was exhausted, she was unfocused, she was starving, and she was overstressed! She needed twice as much sleep and half as much work. She desired the company that misery so loves, and she longed for one single weekend in which she wasn’t working her arse off. When would it all end?

            She summoned Dobby and ordered him to get her as much chocolate as he could lay his hands on. He did this with alacrity, and in one minute Hermione was stuffing three globes of dark chocolate in her mouth at once and chewing desperately. It was at this moment that she broke down.

            She wasn’t going to get any work on her project done tonight. She wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. She wasn’t going to have a single minute of free time until the play was over. And she had just _ordered_ a house-elf to get her food—like a slave! She was so miserable she wanted to die.

            So for the next hour-and-a-half, Hermione sobbed into her sleeves. Dobby hung around and gave her many hugs and massages, and Hermione wailed out a dozen apologies every other minute. “I’m so sorry, Dobby! I’m sorry I made you get me chocolate! Dobby, do you forgive me? I value you as an intelligent being, Dobby, I really do! I don’t know what possessed me to order you around like a slave! If you want to go—and I know you do!—I won’t be mad.” And so on and so forth. Dobby just cooed a long line of comfort into her ear and kept feeding her chocolates. She scarfed enough truffles to keep a fondue fountain running for an entire Ministry party, and by the time 6:15 rolled around, Hermione felt extremely bloated, extremely miserable, and extremely guilty. She was touched by Dobby’s patient bolstering, but nothing could improve Hermione’s mood right now—not even if Godric Gryffindor himself materialized atop the study tables and performed a striptease.

            With all this hanging over her, Hermione trudged to the Prefect’s Bathroom to wash away at least the appearance of stress. She would cleanse the tear tracks and file her fingernails, which had grown rather ragged from dragging themselves across her cheeks all night. And maybe she could try yet another trick to get her hair to stop being so bushy. _Hmmph, as if that’ll ever happen_ , Hermione thought listlessly. _Every day I try to tame my hair, and every day it just gets uglier. How can this day possibly be any different?_

            Hermione gave the password. The door opened, and she stepped into the bathroom.

            Coughing fit to burst, she rushed out again. With her billowed a huge cloud of smoke, stifling and incensed so heavily that Hermione nearly got high from only a few breaths of the stuff. Tears streaming from her eyes, she fled halfway down the hall and waited for the smoke to float towards the ceiling. In a minute it had risen to the rafters, and Hermione was able to return to the Prefect Bathroom without having to breathe any more of that insufferable gas.

            “What the bloody fuck was that!” she raged quietly, determined to be in a bad temper all day. Profanity be damned: She was going to cuss up a storm, and if anyone didn’t like it, then they could bloody well go to the top of the Astronomy Tower and throw themselves off! “I’ll bet it was that buggering Peeves.” She stormed into the bathroom and stopped short.

            The tub was surrounded by literally hundreds, maybe even thousands of candles, many of them still lit and burnt down to stubs against the marble floor. With a wave of her wand, she sent a blast of wind that blew them all out and even knocked a dozen or so of them into the tub. As for the tub, it was filled to the brim with water, and in it rested a single person, naked and unmoving.

            It was Professor Trelawney. She was dead.

 

~~~~~

 

            “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

            A deep breath.

            “AAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

            Hermione did not have to do this for long before the whole of Hogwarts came running. Okay, so it was only a dozen students and a few teachers at first, but as the commotion grew, so did the crowd, and soon a sizeable multitude thronged around the ring of candles.

            “What’s happened?”

            “Hey, who started screaming?”

            “Why are we looking at someone sitting naked in a tub? This is sick!”

            “Hey, is that a _teacher_ in there?”

            “Everyone out of the way!” Professor McGonagall had arrived, followed by Flitwick and and Dumbledore. They were all dressed in nightgowns, but Dumbledore’s was by far the most flamboyant—it had little planets and stars that glowed in the dark and danced around the cloth. The three teachers made a path through the ring of candles and stood around the edge of the tub, examining the body.

            “It is Professor Trelawney,” Dumbledore announced, loud enough so that everyone heard him. “She is dead.”

            Inexplicably, he sounded a bit ashamed. McGonagall’s response was stronger: She gave a dry sob and stumbled away from the tub, looking like Voldemort himself had stared her in the eye. Flitwick didn’t react except to raise his eyebrows in unflattering astonishment.

            Meanwhile, the students gasped and began repeating the news threefold to one another.

            “Professor Trelawney is dead! Professor Trelawney is dead! Professor Trelawney is dead!” And etceteras, etceteras.

            “Oh no!” wailed one First-Year who had no idea how miserable a teacher Trelawney was. “What happened to her?”

            Maybe nobody else noticed, but Hermione was shrewd enough to realize that Dumbledore once again looked a little guilty. So, inexplicably, did Professor McGonagall. And Draco Malfoy. They all stared at the floor, or at the ceiling, or at the people next to them, but never at the body in the tub. What the hell was going on? What did these three people have to do with the death of Professor Trelawney?

            Lavender and Parvati were devastated to see their favorite professor lying dead in the water just yards away from them; that their professor was pasty and naked only worsened the trauma. “I can’t believe it!” Lavender wailed into her best friend’s shoulder. “I just can’t believe it! How could she leave us at a time like this? _”_

            The other students exchanged guilty looks. The truth was, none of them was all that sad that Trelawney had died. She was mad as a hatter (or madder!). She smelled of cooking sherry and acted as if that was all she ever drank. Also, she was a terrible teacher: She had spent the last sixteen-and-a-half years predicting their deaths, for Merlin’s sake! There was really nothing to like about her… at all. They felt—and Hermione counted herself among them—that the process of natural selection had done the world a favor in shuffling this tragic being off the Mortal Coil.

            The worst thing about all this, though, was that they felt guilty for _not_ feeling sad. Trelawney was a human being, and she had died. She wasn’t Voldemort, she wasn’t a Death Eater, and she wasn’t even a common criminal. She was just a strange old lady who had gotten on their nerves. But she was human. They should be celebrating her life and mourning her death, yet they weren’t. If anything, they’d been mourning her life and were now celebrating her death, or at least celebrating the fact that they’d never have to deal with her again. And, though they couldn’t help their feelings, they still felt guilty for them.

            Ron and Harry appeared by Hermione’s side and craned their necks to survey the morbid sight. “Oh gee,” Ron said delicately, trying to maintain the forced mood of solemnity. “Yikes. What in fucking fuck?”

            Without warning, a spectral shape floated out of the water, causing half the students to scream. The teachers whipped their heads towards the mysterious development, then caught their breaths when they realized what it was.

            “Moaning Myrtle?” Ron breathed. The oddest thing about it was that he whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, but Moaning Myrtle didn’t throw a tantrum, nor even burst into tears. In fact, she was grinning broadly from ear to ghostly ear, looking more joyous than anyone had remembered, or even imagined, in their entire period at Hogwarts.

            “My most esteemable Myrtle,” Dumbledore said softly, “what happened here? What caused this tragedy?”

            “Oh my good professors,” Myrtle sang gleefully, “I know exactly what happened! And it is no tragedy.”

 

~~~~~

 

            Ten hours earlier, something very strange sped through the halls of Hogwarts. It was Professor Trelawney, barefoot and clad in a loose bathrobe. Her wand was out, and with it she levitated a line of boxes behind her. There were a dozen boxes in all, enough to hold all fifteen hundred of her candles, and she was taking every single of one of them with her to the Prefect’s Bathroom for her nightly bath.

            “Edna told me to do it, so I’ll do it!” Trelawney whispered crazily to herself. “Take a bath, cleanse myself of my sorrow, if that’s even possible. But is it? Oh dear holy Merlin, is it?”

            She reached the entrance of the bathroom and said in a tremendous tremolo, “ _Ogden’s Delights!_ ” The door opened, and she stepped in, allowing the boxes to follow in single file. She closed and locked the door behind her, then threw off her robe because it felt much too heavy against her skin.

            Standing naked in the moonlight, Trelawney waved her wand about, causing all the candles to fly from their boxes and up into the air. They fluttered above her in a cloud tall enough to brush the ceiling, jostling against one another and sending flakes of wax into Sybil’s bedraggled hair. With another wave of her wand, the candles lined themselves around the tub, sitting coolly with their black wicks pricking the chilly night air.

            Trelawney slipped into the tub, savoring the firm caress of the marble against her bare buttocks, yet at the same time lamenting that it wasn’t a pair of strong hands she felt instead. “Why is it that all my men leave me?” she said, her words expelled from her lips in sputters. “Why is it, when I beg for them to stay with me, they always leave? When I say I love them, I _mean_ I love them!”

            Still whimpering, she began turning on the many taps, allowing the multicolored water to jet into the vast tub. While the water level rose around her legs, Trelawney sent a line of flames from her wand. The fire circled the ring of candles that surrounded her and lit every one of them.

            The effect was staggering. Previously when Trelawney had taken a bath in the Prefect’s Bathroom, she only took a few candles—a couple dozen at the most. But now, with over a thousand candles, there was enough fire to create a small cloud of smoke above her. The fumes they gave off were mindbending. Before they had made Trelawney a little light-headed, but now they blasted her brain with such vapors that the room multiplied before her eyes. She was sure there were at least three mermaid paintings on the wall now, but even more sure that they had left the paintings and were fluttering around in the air like birds. Each flame became an overexcited firefly hovering two inches above the ground but always stretching for a few inches more. They whispered words to Trelawney: “Follow us, Sybil! We are the thousand lights—follow us and find what you seek!” Their words rose from their mouths and shriveled in the air, becoming smoke. They repeated themselves so quickly and so frequently that the room was soon thick with their speech. “Follow us! Follow us!”

            And so Trelawney followed them. The surface of the water now hovered at the brim of the tub, so Trelawney had to push through the dark pool to reach the other end of the ring. “I’m coming!” she gasped. “I’m coming! I’M COMING! Oh fuck, Death, I’m coming!”

            And she came. Her pelvis undulated beneath the water, swallowing great gulps of the scented liquid into her cervix before expelling it. Her legs quivered and her arms shook, and her heart wrenched magnificently in her chest as she realized that this orgasm found her all alone.

            “Nobody to share it with,” she moaned softly. “Nobody to feel its power juddering from my body into theirs… Oh why, oh why? They all left me, every one of them! I am the lonely tree in the wint—in the wint—in the winter…” She coughed violently, doubling at the waist until her hair crushed the soapsuds on the water’s surface. The one-and-a-half thousand candles had raised the temperature of the room past 45 degrees Celsius, which was enough to flush her tender skin a magnificent red, and she was beginning to realize just how heavy the smoke had become. Previously it had risen to the ceiling, but now the air was so full of it that it sunk down towards the surface of the water, threatening to swallow the poor Divination professor. She coughed again, this time much more heavily than before. She gulped down a huge breath of air to revive herself, but with it came a mouthful of smoke.

            “ _Ugh—_ ” She choked as the smoke coated her throat. “ _Ugh…_ ” And she realized: She was dying.

            Her wand lay forgotten at the other end of the tub, and she didn’t have the strength to fight her way through the water to reach it. Turning around to face the long line of firefly-candle lights, she gathered all the air from her lungs and expelled it from her mouth in an effort to blow out the candles. Her power was not enough. Precious little air entered her lungs, and all that did was just enough for those fiery beings to flit in synchrony to one side, only to return to their original position when she stopped blowing. So she took a deep breath to get more air, but all that happened was she started coughing again—great, ragged coughs. Even those failed to snuff the candles.

            “I’m dying…” she rasped. “I’m dying.” She turned around and sunk into the tub until only her head and shoulders were above the water. “When I was loved—when I had a man by my side—he would (*cough*) be in here with me… washing my back… He’d whisper to me instead of flames.

“But he’s gone… They’re all gone… And they’ll come back no more.”

            Her next breath was shorter than the last. She was a lone figure in the murky air, a shadow of a person. The waters around her were dark and deep. And to the smoke she whispered, “No more…”

            What else was there that could sum up her tragic life? She was to be a no-more phantom, just as everything she loved had become, and now was the time to join them in the Great Beyond. For a second the thought what lay beyond death scared her, but, she figured, if there was nothing for her on this earth, why stay with it any longer? Too many times Death with his scythe had reached out to touch the lives of her loved ones while ignoring her with all the dispassion a being could muster. Too often his ghostly companions surrounded her and refused to bargain with Death so that he’d take her too. But now Death was coming, and she was ready. In fact, she had never wanted anything more!

            The firelights danced so furiously around the tub that they’d become one continuous ring, or even a portal—a door that swallowed Trelawney and welcomed her to her conference with Death himself. Through her blurry vision Trelawney saw a figure materializing in the smoke, and her heart began to race. It was Death, she knew it! It was him in his hooded cloak with the scythe slung over his shoulder, ready to speak to her about life in the Afterlife!

            But it wasn’t Death. It wasn’t even wearing black. It was, in fact, a ghost, transparent and lean, that floated in front of her. It was Moaning Myrtle.

            “Sybil!” the young girl gasped. “Sybil Trelawney, what’s happening?”

            “Myrtle,” Trelawney whispered, her voice a rasp. “I’m dying.”

            “What?” Myrtle gasped, and this time the idea of someone else’s death didn’t excite her at all. “Sybil, what do you mean?”

            “What’s there to live for?” Trelawney replied listlessly. “Who is there who cares?”

            “I’m going to get help!” Myrtle said, distraught. “Just you wait, Sybil, and I’ll be back!”

            “Don’t go,” Sybil murmured. “Stay with me. Talk with me. But don’t leave me to die alone. There is nobody else left.”

            Myrtle wrung her ghostly hands together and gazed down upon the dying professor, clearly in a quandary. “Sybil, I don’t want you to die,” she whimpered.

            “Why not,” said Trelawney, not even having the energy to state it as a question.

            “Because,” Myrtle sobbed, bursting into tears. “Because, Sybil, _I_ care! I don’t want you to leave me!”

            “But _they_ left me.” Trelawney’s voice was languid as it drained from her corpse. She was fading away, and nothing would bring her back. Nothing.

            “Don’t!” Myrtle wailed, tearing at her ghostly hair. She flitted back and forth through the water, working herself into a state of agitation. Trelawney became so dizzy watching her that she had to close her eyes. “Sybil, don’t! Open your eyes, stay with me! Don’t go, not now, not when I haven’t told you. Sybil, I… Sybil, I… I love you!”

            Nothing would bring her back… except that! The haze that had fought to engulf her brain flickered, then slowly receded—not completely, but enough to allow Sybil to jerk upward at the waist and stand straight, her eyes so wide that she could no longer feel her eyelids. “What?” she gasped, her passions overwhelming her. “What—what… Myrtle, what did you say?”

            “I love you!” Myrtle moaned. “Merlin, how I love you, Sybil Trelawney!”

            “You… _love_ me?” The violence of Trelawney’s emotions was so great that her limbs began to shake, even in the scorching heat. “Myrtle, you can’t… you didn’t really just say…”

            “I love you, I love you, _I love you_!” Myrtle repeated. She was begging Trelawney to believe her. “I have always loved you! Ever since we had Transfiguration together in Third Year. Since then, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you.”

            “What are you saying?” Trelawney breathed, still unable to fully register the exchange.

            “I’ve loved nobody but you!” Myrtle cried. “When I realized just how much I loved you… well, I _couldn’t_ tell you! I was afraid you’d hate me for it. And so I said nothing—I suffered in silence as you chased after that _cockhead_ Bartleby.”

            Myrtle moaned softly and drifted closer to the stunned Divination professor. “And then, Sybil, I died. I died, and I had to come back—you couldn’t expect me to leave you to the mercies of Bartleby!”

            “But he,” Sybil said weakly, “he was a good lover. He loved me. He said so. He took my virginity.” And how gently he had taken her! How loving, and how pleasant their midnight talks had been! He had been a gentleman, even up to the time when he left Hogwarts and consequently broke up with her. But he had loved her, hadn’t he? He hadn’t abused her or shouted at her.

            “He left you,” Myrtle said brutally. “Once he got enough pleasure out of you, he dumped you and used graduation as an excuse. Then it was on to Artesimus Fudge, who’s as much of a whore as a man can ever be.”

            “He gave me nice presents,” Trelawney said weakly.

            “And you gave him nice sex. By that time you were out of school, so I didn’t linger in Hogwarts—I couldn’t bear to be away from you. At the same time, I couldn’t exactly haunt you, because that would have made you miserable, which was the last thing I wanted. So I haunted Olive Hornby for a while (to get back at her for all her nasty tricks!) and traveled to your various apartments every month or so, just to check in on you.”

            “I had a good life then,” Sybil sighed, running her hands along her scalded breasts. “I had Giovanni, and he loved me as any proper man should. I’m sure he would have asked me to marry him had he not died in that horrific cauldron accident.” Her vision blurred even further as tears throbbed in her eyes.

            “I’m sorry, Sybil,” Myrtle whispered, her heart and her voice breaking for the desolate professor. “But he wouldn’t have. He was like any other man you meet—a dick and a narcissistic and misogynist to boot!”

            “Now that’s a bit harsh!” Trelawney protested. “Not _all_ men, surely…”

            “Well, not Harry Potter,” Myrtle said, even managing a smile despite the desperate situation. “And not Dumbledore. But most men are. And most women are self-absorbed bitches, like that disgusting Olive!”

            Trelawney moaned and sank against the marble slope of the tub. “But how, then, can you even love me?” she asked brokenly. “I’m less than that: I’m nothing—I’m not even a worthy sex object! If not even the men with the lowest standards will touch me, how can you—a woman, and a young one at that—find anything in me worth loving?”

            “Because,” Myrtle said, now hovering mere inches from Trelawney’s face. The dying professor could see every tear sparkling in the girl’s ghostly eyes. “Because, Sybil, where they saw your body, I see your heart. It is broken, my dear Sybil, and mine breaks with it. You are a sad, lost woman, but that’s not who you were made to be! Sybil, I do not see the woman that you are, but the woman you can be. I promise, Sybil, I can help you through this! I _can_ love you, and when the world ends and we pass on to our final judgment, we’ll go together, both having served the purpose we could not find in life.”

            “Oh, _Myrtle_ …” Trelawney moaned. “Myrtle, do you really mean it? Please, Myrtle, I _need_ someone to love me. I’ve needed it my whole life, but every time I thought I had it, I lost it! How… how can I trust you, when everyone else has claimed their love, then left?”

            “Because,” Myrtle said with conviction, “they only wanted sex. That’s why they said they loved you, so that you would spread your legs. But as for me… I’ve given you the password to the Prefect’s Bathroom. I’ve talked with you after your break-ups. And I’ve stayed here in Hogwarts, in the very place I died, waiting for the day in which I could finally tell you I love you. I did all this, knowing that you were alive and I was dead. I could have Gone On to look for love, knowing how empty this world was, but even it all its ruin, I knew it held one person of value, one person I couldn’t find in the afterlife. And that person was you, Sybil. I love you.”

            “I… Oh, Myrtle...” She fought to remain conscious, yet at the same time she felt the urge to let herself go. For in the fog of death, the falsehoods that had plagued her life now began to melt away, and for the first time she began to see things clearly. Draco _hadn’t_ loved her! Neither had Barnabus, nor Artesimus, nor even Giovanni, nor all the other men that had come and gone. She had fallen for a bartender and a Puffskein breeder, an ambassador and a headmaster. She had fallen and fallen and fallen. From lover to lover she’d plummeted, always needing love, always giving love, but never receiving love in return. Such had been her spiral downward, until she had nothing left of her heart but fifty years of pain.

            But now, as the smoke choked her lungs, her mind was free! “Myrtle!” she cried. “Myrtle, oh Myrtle! Now I realize.”

            Moaning Myrtle drifted sadly over to Professor Trelawney and hovered over her flopping form, “Realized what?”

            “I never loved any of them,” Trelawney said, tears falling from her eyes. “I NEVER LOVED ANY OF THEM!”

            “You never—?”

            “None of them!” Trelawney cried. “For my whole life, there’s been an empty hole in my heart, and for my whole life I’ve sought to fill it. I’ve gone from one man to the next, giving all I had in hopes that he’d give me the love I so desperately needed in return. I threw myself at him, professed my undying love, and he threw it all back, broken past repair. And so I’ve slung it all over my shoulder and continued onward, from one failure to the next, reaching ever lower for the one man who could satisfy me. As much as I’ve tried to make life better for myself, it’s only gotten worse. And now I have scraped the bottom of the barrel—this past year has been the most exquisite torture that any woman can experience without going mad!

            “But now you’ve come along, and oh, Myrtle, you’ve removed the scales from my eyes! That love I was searching for was love that no man could ever give me. What I needed was the nurturing of another woman, a woman who would actually talk to me and give me the support I needed. Can you really do that for me, Myrtle?”

            “All that and more,” Myrtle promised her, crying afresh. “Oh, why didn’t I confess my love sooner? I could have saved you from half a century of suffering!”

            “Don’t blame yourself, Myrtle,” Trelawney said. She was now smiling for the first time in… well, the first time in as long a time as she could remember, come to think of it. She had finally found what eluded her for all these years, and now she finally felt peace with herself. She needed nothing more to turn her life in a complete one-eighty. As such, she now no longer felt the need to fight the haze that seeped back into her brain. “If I hadn’t suffered so much, how could I know how happy you have made me?”

            Myrtle was so overcome by this that she couldn’t even speak. She only choked out another sob and stroked Trelawney’s cheek. Though the ghost’s touch was as ice-cold as any other, Trelawney relished it. The tub was so hot from the candles that it was almost simmering, and her skin was so red it was painful. Myrtle’s presence was here to sooth the agony of her passing, and for it Trelawney only loved the ghost even more.

            “This is goodbye, Myrtle,” she rasped. “But not forever. I’m coming back.”

 

~~~~~

 

            “…And then she died.” Moaning Myrtle finished the story with a big grin on her face.

            The students and the teacher didn’t applaud the happy ending. They didn’t even heave sighs of relief. They simply stared unflatteringly at the grinning ghost, their mouths open and their eyebrows raised to their hairlines.

            “Wow,” Ron said to Harry and Hermione. “Just wow. I really don’t know what to make of that.” Neither, apparently did anybody else. Everyone muttered to themselves, but nobody sounded particularly impressed with the story. McGonagall and Dumbledore didn’t say anything, but exchanged uncomfortable looks.

            Suddenly one Second Year student squealed, “Look!” He pointed wildly to the opposite side of the tub, and everyone turned just in time to see a transparent object materialize on the opposite side of the tub. It was Sybil Trelawney. She was now as ghostly as Nearly-Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron, and everyone considered it an improvement. In her nonsubstantial stage, her body and all the ugliness that came with it were almost invisible.

            “Sybil!” Myrtle crooned happily. “You’ve come back.”

            “Just as I said I would,” Trelawney replied, gliding over to take the young ghost’s hand. The two of them floated back to face the crowd, exchanging shy grins every other second.

            For a moment nobody spoke. Then Lavender said timidly, “Are we still going to have Divination class?”

            “Yes,” Trelawney answered promptly. Luna and Loser rolled their eyes, while Ernie and Colin glared Lavender. She and Parvati, however, clapped their hands together and high-fived.

            “Oh, I’m so glad, Professor!” Parvati said breathlessly. “Your subject is my favorite—I couldn’t bear having it cut from my schedule for the rest of the year.”

            Trelawney just beamed and blushed as much as was possible for a ghost.

            “I don’t suppose your salary would do you any good now,” Dumbledore figured. “So I hope you don’t mind that I discontinue it. For your payment, I shall allow you to live in this castle.”

            “Thank you very much, Albus,” Trelawney cooed. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to go somewhere private to enjoy some conversation.”

            “Have a good time,” Dumbledore said. “Are you holding classes today?”

            “Not today,” Trelawney decided, “nor tomorrow. But I’ll start up again on Monday.”

            “Then I’m going back to bed!” Colin said, a little too jovially. “Whoo! An extra hour to sleep in, that’s what I like to hear!”

            He left, as did Ernie and Loser, while Trelawney and Myrtle floated down through the floor, arm in arm. The students slowly left the room, still a little shaken by what they’d just witnessed.

            “First of all,” Ron said, sounding very skeptical. “I gotta question the idea that Moaning Myrtle can help someone recover from years of emotional trauma—and Trelawney’s a pretty damn basket case of trauma, if you ask me.

            “Yeah…” Harry said uneasily. “Well, I just kinda feel guilty for, well… for not seeing it ahead of time. You know, with her obsession over death and all. And then she ends up killing herself. I feel sorta bad for, you know, making fun of it.”

            “I don’t,” Hermione said, stifling a grin. “It was pretty damn funny.” She had to admit, the whole spectacle had actually improved her mood. Maybe she had just needed to realize that someone’s life was worse than hers… and that her misery was purely physical—it had an end in sight. “It also helps that Trelawney came back… give it a few weeks, and we’ll all start making fun of her again.”

            Harry laughed a little. “Yeah,” he admitted, “you’re probably right. Oh well. I’m sure I’ll recover from the guilt. Sooner than I should, I think.”

            They left the bathroom, laughing heartily. As they passed a statue of Boris the Bewildered, they ran into Goyle. “Gregory!” Hermione said, the delight in her voice obvious.

            “Hermione?” Goyle stared at her as if caught off guard. “Wow, Hermione, your hair looks amazing!”

            “What?” Hermione said, flustered by the unexpected comment. “My… you didn’t say my hair, did you?”

            “Yes, your hair!” Goyle breathed. “I’ve never seen you looking so beautiful.”

            “Wh—but… But I didn’t do anything to it!” Hermione stammered, reaching up to pat her hair. “I haven’t brushed it since yesterday morning—how could it possibly…?” She dug speedily into her purse and pulled out a handheld mirror. She gazed critically at her own appearance, marveling at what she saw. Yes, her hair was still bushy and it was still big. But for the first time in her life it looked… well, beautiful! It looked like it belonged to her, and that was just fine. She could hardly believe it.

            Did it really look better? Was it simply not worrying about her hair that had done the trick? Or was it Goyle’s comment that had raised her self esteem? Hermione didn’t know, and she figured she didn’t care. What mattered was that she felt better about her appearance than she had for a long time!

            “I think, then,” Goyle said with a smile, “that you should keep on doing ‘nothing’ to your hair. I always knew you never needed help to look beautiful.”

            Without any warning, Hermione grabbed Goyle by the shoulders and kissed him. It wasn’t a quick peck on the cheek, either, but full on the lips for a good five seconds. She worked her mouth against his until he responded, and at that moment she drew away, grinning and flushed. Goyle looked mindboggled, and delightedly so. Ron laughed, and Harry blushed and purposely looked the other way.

            “C’mon, Harry,” Ron chortled, grabbing his best friend by the arm. “I need to show you something upstairs.”

            “Show me what?” Harry said. “Hermione, should we wait—?”

            “No girls allowed,” Ron interrupted him firmly. “Sorry, Hermione, we’ll see you later! Hope you have fun!”

            Hermione turned to Goyle, taking his hand in hers. She grinned ever so softly and said shyly, “So… do you think we’ll have fun?”

            Goyle gulped and took a deep breath, trying to calm him fluttering heart. But nothing he could do would erase the grin that plastered itself across his face. “I do believe so, Hermione,” he whispered huskily.


	21. An Orgy of Guilt

            The next few days passed in the best of fashions. There was something about Trelawney’s death that made everyone happy, including herself. In the space of a few short hours, they had effectively lost both a moaning ghost and a moaning Divination professor. Admittedly, it was a bit disconcerting to run into the odd couple on the grounds or in one of the bathrooms, but everyone agreed that a freaky ghost romance was much more agreeable than two miserable souls.

            “I wouldn’t say _everyone’s_ happy about it, though,” Hermione said hesitantly on Monday morning at breakfast. She was a bit bleary-eyed from working all weekend, but she was happy to announce that she’d had a breakthrough with her Arithmancy project and was now on scroll two.

            “How d’you mean?” Ron said around a mouthful of sausage.

            “ _Manners_ , Ron!” Hermione admonished him. “Well, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall seem a little weirded out by it. So does Draco, to be honest. I noticed it in the Prefect’s Bathroom Thursday morning, and ever since they seem a little more… subdued.”

            “I didn’t notice,” Harry said unapologetically.

            “But I see what you’re saying, now that you point it out.” Ron thoughtfully chewed on his jam-covered biscuit and looked up at the staff table. “Dumbledore seems pretty much the same, but he and McG both seem to be looking at Trelawney’s empty chair a little too often.”

            “Hmm…” Hermione said pensively. She shook her head and said, “I suppose it’s none of our business.”

            Harry tutted sharply and leaned forward across the table at Hermione. “What kind of idea is that?” he scolded her. “We gotta stick our noses in and find out what’s going on—it’s in our blood by now.”

            Hermione smiled wryly. “After six years of mysteries and twists, I think I’m a bit pooped. Give me a few years, and if I’m not busy in the Ministry by then, we can dip back into a little adventure.”

            “Hoo, that’s what I like to hear!” Ron cheered and gave Harry a high-five. Hermione was going to flick a piece of bacon at them when Gregory Goyle showed up with Luna Lovegood.

            “Gregory!” she said delightedly. “Luna! So nice to see you two. Hey!” Ron had taken advantage of her inattention to lob the head of the sausage at her. Laughing heartily, the trio scooted around enough to make some room for Luna and Goyle.

            By now, it was official: Harry Potter was dating Luna Lovegood, and Hermione Granger was dating Gregory Goyle. The latter romance had caused quite a scandal, it being between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, not to mention the fact that Hermione was the smartest witch in the school while everyone still thought Goyle was the stupidest. Every girl in Gryffindor, plus a few from Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and even Slytherin, bombarded Hermione with questions, asking her why she had made such an awful choice in her boyfriend. And since she was not one to satisfy the gossip chain, all she said was, “There’s more to Gregory than meets the eye.” They tried to wheedle more information out of her, but it was really quite a hopeless pursuit: After all, she was the one who had been fighting Death Eaters the past three years while they’d been hiding behind _The_ _Daily Prophet_.

            Now that Harry and Luna were officially together, they were officially allowed to snog. And so, after a few kisses over breakfast, Luna turned to him and said conversationally, “Hey, Harry, would you like to snog in a broom cupboard before we have to go to class?”

            Harry blushed magnificently. How was it that he could stand years of ridicule from his classmates plus battles against Voldemort, yet something as harmless as his girlfriend mentioning snogging in public made him want to dive under the table? He fought the color in his face, however, and replied, “Of course, Luna.” _Might as well get used to it_ , he told himself with a grin. _She’s going to be a lot more forthright than either Ginny or Cho, no matter who’s around to hear it_.

            So they excused themselves to snog. It was marvelous. Harry discovered a spot on Luna’s neck that might as well have been a second clitoris, what with all the moaning it produced. At the same time, Luna’s fingers, wet from his mouth, conducted a serious expedition of Harry’s rippled abdomen. Harry retaliated by tickling her ribs just below the breast, and she wriggled about purposefully so that her clothed nipple brushed up against Harry’s wrist. They giggled and laughed, then kissed solemnly, then made some funny noises, then fell silent again. Sometimes they were relatively still, and sometimes they bucked about so much that the brooms and mops clattered along with them. Then Luna pulled Harry into her for the deepest kiss yet, while at the same time positioning his arse up against a large container of Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. She grounds his buttocks against the container for a brief second, then broke off the kiss, leaving him reeling.

            “I’ve gotta go to class now,” she said primly. Not bothering to straighten her clothes or tame her hair, she pranced down the hallway, throwing in a twirl every ten yards or so.

            “Oh my…” Harry breathed, massaging the balloon that seemed to be growing in his stomach. “Oh holy fuckness… How can someone manage to be _that_ hot?” He seriously didn’t know how Luna did it. Shouldn’t it be a crime for someone to be so smart and so brave, yet so sexy as well? Or maybe, Harry figured, it was the fact that she _was_ such a great person that made her truly sexy.

            Either way, when Harry stopped by the bathroom en route to Transfiguration, he discovered that the Cockmice had held a marriage ceremony on the head of his penis.

 

**********

            Minerva McGonagall had never felt so guilty in her entire life. Wait, scratch that: there had been one time during the war when she and Dumbledore had to sacrifice the lives of an entire family in order to prevent an attack on Diagon Alley. The worst thing was that their plan failed, Diagon Alley had been attacked, hundreds had died, and those parents and their two young children had been sacrificed in vain. That had sucked so much it fellated.

            So in reality, this was the second-most guilty Minerva had felt in her entire life. She had as good as killed Sybil Trelawney. She had gone up to the North Tower to deliver the letter and had instead gotten raped. It was an accident, she knew—Trelawney hadn’t meant to rape her! But the shame had been too much for the poor Divination professor, so she had run off and killed herself. And that made it McGonagall’s fault.

            As she watched her students file into the room, she suppressed a tremble and strode up to the board to begin drawing an illustration for the day’s notes. “Everyone pull out your books,” she said automatically, “and turn to page 584.” Holy Merlin, was that her voice? It sounded so mechanical! She wasn’t even speaking now—the words were leaving her mouth as if by someone else’s will.

            _At least Sybil came back as a ghost_ , a small voice in the back of her mind reminded her. _And at least she’s gotten together with Moaning Myrtle. So, in a way, she’s_ happier _because she’s dead. By effectively killing her, you made her life better!_

            What bollocks! Trelawney might be having fun with Moaning Myrtle, but after a few hundred years, every ghost couldn’t help but regret their refusal to face the afterlife. She had talked to Nearly-Headless Nick about it, and he said that it was his biggest problem: He felt like a coward for not Going On. It’d only be a matter of a couple decades until even Sybil and Moaning Myrtle felt that same guilt.

            Minerva gave her head a shake and put her mind on teaching. And yet never through the lecture did the matter leave her mind.

 

~~~~~

 

            Just a dozen meters away Draco sat in the back of the class, fidgeting with his textbook and completely incapable of concentrating on his notes.

            He had killed Professor Trelawney. Or as good as killed her. He had played with her emotions since the school year started, and then he had just thrown her away. Two days later, she was dead by her own hand (or rather, her own candles). It didn’t take a genius to figure out whose fault it was.

            _I’ve never killed somebody before!_ Draco thought, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. _I wouldn’t have minded torturing a few Mudbloods during the war, but I wasn’t even a Death Eater! And Sybil Trelawney most definitely wasn’t a Mudblood_.

            Ah, come on! She was old; she was going to die anyway!

            _But it’s still my fault_.

            She was as delusional as Fudge and as crazy as Dumbledore himself. She was the most annoying thing Draco had ever stuck his penis into, and that was saying a lot! Certainly she _deserved_ to die?

            _No matter how annoying she was_ , his conscience lectured him _, she didn’t deserve the ending you inflicted upon her. She trusted you enough to let you enter her vagina—and you broke that trust_.

            Fuck it all! When did he grow a conscience? Growling bitterly to himself, Draco slouched even lower in his seat and resolved not to think of Trelawney for the rest of the day. She was just a loony teacher, and the world was better off without her. From here on out, he’d expel her from his mind.

            He failed miserably, of course.

 

~~~~~

            An hour later, Draco left Transfiguration with a load of homework and guilt. An hour of ignoring Professor Trelawney had turned into an hour of consciously trying to ignore her and thus thinking about her the entire time. He never knew that remorse was so powerful! He always figured that, if he killed someone, it’d feel exhilarating at best, discomforting at worst. That was, of course, before he actually became responsible for someone’s death. Now, he marveled at the holes that chewed themselves into his stomach and the lumps that filled his chest and squeezed his rapidly beating heart. Guilt was painful!

            “Hey, Draco,” someone cooed into his ear. He jumped a mile and barely missed plugging that person in the nose with his fist. “Whoa, calm it down!” Cho cried, for that was who it was.

            “Sorry,” Draco muttered, straightening his bag. “Didn’t see you coming.”

            “If you need to work out some of that tension, then let’s find the nearest broom cupboard and knead it away!” She licked one of her fingers and placed it against the bulge in his trousers. “What do you say?”

            He really shouldn’t. This was exactly what had led to Trelawney’s death. He had said to himself, _“Oh, I just want to toy with her a bit. It’ll be a quick wham-bam, and then off I’ll scoot! She’ll be game for it, and she’s way too old to fall in love with me! There couldn’t possibly be any complications!”_ And then she had died. He decided that it couldn’t happen again, so he opened his mouth to tell Cho that he’d have to pass for now, because he was very busy. What came out instead was, “Sure! You bet.”

            So they went to the nearest broom cupboard. Draco snapped a string off one of the mops and tickled it against Cho’s pubic hairs. The Asian girl slapped some oil-based polish on Draco’s chest and rubbed it around until he gleamed. Then they kissed heavily and rubbed the oil deep into the crevaces of each other’s bodies. Draco pulled a throbbing erection from his trousers and was about to stab Cho in the cervix when the door suddenly flew open, and another couple bumped into them.

            “AAAIYIKES!” Cho squealed.

            “GO THE FUCK AWAY!” Draco yelled.

            “What the hell?” said Edmund, for he was the male half of the couple.

            “Cho, is that you?” And Marietta was the female half.

            “Marietta?” Cho whimpered, blushing deeply as she quickly straightened her clothes, cringing as her shirt stuck to her oiled skin. “What’re you… what’re you?”

            “ _Draco?”_ Marietta gasped as she realized just who was with her best friend. “Draco Malfoy! So _that’s_ who you’re seeing, Cho!”

            “No, Marietta, it’s—”

            “But this is awful!” Marietta wailed. “This is just absolutely bloody awful!”

            “No, Marietta,” Cho tried to explain quickly, “it’s not, it’s… it’s…”

            “You’re fucking bloody Draco Malfoy all this time, and you didn’t tell me?”

            “What’s the big fucking deal?” Edmund interrupted. Draco just backed slowly away, hoping to get away from the escalating argument.

            “I… no, please, Marietta, try to understand…”

            “But Cho, _I’m_ fucking him! I’ve been fucking Malfoy for the past year now!”

            Draco took this moment to set off at a run, only to find that a crowd had gathered and was now watching the fight with a good deal of interest. His escape route was blocked.

            “I’m sorry, Marietta,” Cho whimpered, beginning to cry. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

            “But why did you choose him, Cho?” Marietta huffed, slamming an exasperated fist into the wall. Her glare was one of supreme annoyance, and yet it didn’t seem truly angry. “You _knew_ he’d cheat on you.”

            “I…” Cho whimpered. “I… he’s just…”

            The crowd waited with baited breath as she searched desperately for the right words. She didn’t find them, and instead she sagged against the closet’s doorframe, tears streaming down her face.

            “I wouldn’t have gone after him if I had known you were so in love with him.”

            “I’m not, though!” Cho protested, humiliated. “He’s… he’s just a man on the side. The person I’ve really been seeing this year is… is Vincent Crabbe.”

            “Oh,” Marietta said, calming down. “Oh. Okay. Whew, for a second there I thought I was fucking your man!”

            “What?” Cho said, startled by Marietta’s change in attitude. “You’re not mad, then?”

            “Of course not!” Marietta said. “It’s not like I’m in love with Draco Malfoy.”

            “Me, neither,” Hannah piped up from the crowd. “He says it an awful lot, and it sounds really nice, but mostly I just like to feel his dick throbbing inside my vag.”

            “I don’t even mind giving him blowjobs,” Romilda Vane said from a crowd of Gryffindor Fifth-Years. “Blowjobs suck as a rule, but when a cock is that veiny, I can’t resist!”

            “He does things with private places that should be illegal!” a Sixth-Year Hufflepuff breathed, her knees trembling. “I’m like: _‘Yeah, keep saying you love me, and I’ll say it too, just as long as you keep pounding my peehole!’_ ”

            “Whoever actually thinks Draco Malfoy loves them is pretty stupid,” Daphne Greengrass said. “No offense, Pansy.”

            “You all are a bunch of good-for-nothing whores!” Pansy cried, squaring her hands against her hips. “I seriously can’t believe you lot. And _you_ , Cho… Vincent fucking Crabbe? Talk about no taste!”

            “But I wasn’t in love with him, either,” Cho insisted. “It was a pretty cool thing we had going, but he just wasn’t enough to satisfy me. No offense, Vincent.”

            Crabbe, who was standing by himself near the edge of the crowd, scratched his head and said, “Huh? What’s going on?”

            “Now Draco Malfoy is an entirely different matter!” Cho cooed. “He must be at least twenty centimeters of meaty yumminess when erect!”

            “And still a good thirteen when flaccid,” a Ravenclaw Fifth-Year guessed. The boys that were present moaned in envy.

            “What I like is when all 20 centimeters of him are lodged firmly up my arse!” Euan Abercrombie inserted, his boyish face shining with glee.

            “Draco Malfoy fucks boys, too?” Lavender squealed. “Oh my fucking Merlin on a dildo! That is so hot!” This statement was echoed by a dozen girls at the same time, and the crowd pressed inward until Draco could barely navigate ten inches in each direction.

            “Can we have a gigantic, Draco-centric orgy?” Marietta suggested. “We’ll all come together and see how many of us can lick Draco’s cock at the same time!”

            “And I can take Draco up the arse!” Euan suggested excitedly. “And if any of the other gay guys are willing, we can see how many penises he can fit into his mouth at once!”

            “I don’t want to fuck Draco!” Terry Boot cried. “I may be gay, but that doesn’t mean I’ll have sex with every guy who asks me.”

            “I wouldn’t do any random guy, either,” said a gay Third-Year from Slytherin, “but if it’s a Draco orgy, you can count me in!”

            “Any males experimenting with their sexuality?” Lavender cried to the ever-growing crowd. “Feel free to join!”

            Draco had never been so flabbergasted in his life. He couldn’t even speak, he was so bowled over. Here, half the population of Hogwarts was planning a giant orgy centered entirely around him, and nobody cared that he was the biggest slut since Godric Gryffindor! Everybody, it seemed, worshipped his penis… and arse, and mouth, and fingers, and heck, pretty much his whole body! This should have been the biggest ego-inflator ever!

            But it wasn’t. As the girls talked excitedly about their favorite sex toys, Draco’s heart plummeted. Was this what it had come to? After years and years of having sex with everything that moved, he could now do it with impunity. But at what cost?

            The cost suddenly became clear when Draco spied Neville Longbottom standing in the middle of the crowd, gazing at Draco Malfoy with a single tear running down his cheek. The Gryffindor boy didn’t merely look disappointed: He looked as if his soul had just been crushed, as if he had one reason to continue living and that reason had been snatched away. And nobody noticed, for they were all too busy with their orgiastic plots.

            Then Neville spoke, and only Draco paid attention. “I must be stupid,” the Gryffindor boy whispered, his voice broken, “because I thought we _did_ have something going.” Then he pushed his way through the crowd and ran down the corridor.

            Draco watched him go, his heart dropping even further in his stomach. His eyes stung badly, and he even felt a bit sick. So this was the cost! He had a reputation: He was a man slut, and he was expected to live up to that name. People would praise his body and his sexual prowess, but nobody would ever love him. Nobody was stupid enough to love a proven slut. And nobody would believe that he could give love in return.

            On impulse, Draco pushed through the crowd in an effort to chase after the Longbottom boy. He ignored the slaps on the back, the gropes up the crotch, and the cries of, “Orgy tonight at 9:00 in the Slytherin Common Room!” He didn’t even want to know if they were being serious. He just wanted to find Neville Longbottom and speak to him.

            Sadly, however, he hadn’t been quick enough. Neville was long gone, and Draco doubted he could find the boy without a tracking device and a couple bloodhounds. Feeling more depressed than before, Draco decided to skip Potions, figuring that Snape would let him get away with it again. In the meantime, he really needed to walk out on the grounds alone to sort out his thoughts.

 

**********

 

            That afternoon Dumbledore and the students held a dress rehearsal. It clipped along amiably, finishing just three minutes over the two-hour mark Dumbledore wished to obtain. Through some miracle, everyone remembered their lines, which was a definite first. However, Dumbledore wasn’t entirely pleased with the performances.

            “Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin,” he said gravely, referring to Draco and Neville. “I am afraid your onstage chemistry has faded since we last practiced on Monday.”

            “Sorry,” Neville mumbled. “I’ll try to do better.”

            “Yeah,” Draco murmured.

            “The kiss wasn’t as electric as I had hoped,” Dumbledore continued, staring them down. “Your mannerisms were awkward to the point of being uncomfortable, Master Malfoy. Gryffindor would never act like that. As for you, Master Longbottom, you looked like you were kissing a fish, and you broke it off much too soon. Now kiss again, right now, and this time do it properly.”

            “No way.” Surprisingly enough, this came from Neville, not Draco. “I refuse to kiss him any more than I have to!” He planted his feet apart and crossed his arms firmly over his chest.

            Dumbledore sighed sadly and put an arm around the Gryffindor’s shoulder. “My dear boy,” he said, “you are Salazar Slytherin—you are one of the four leads. If you fail to perform your part, the entire play will crash down with you.”

            “I don’t think I care anymore,” Neville said, trying not to cry. “I don’t care about _anything_ anymore.”

            “And that is why you are not the director,” Dumbledore said, none too gently. “Now be a good boy and kiss Draco Malfoy.”

            “No,” Neville repeated.

            “ _Yes_ ,” Dumbledore countered. He placed his bony palm against the small of Neville’s back and prodded him gently towards Malfoy. With his other arm he guided Draco into an awkward embrace with his costar, and from there Dumbledore laid their heads on each other’s shoulders. “Now kiss.”

            Draco hooked his arms under Neville’s armpits and took the boy’s cheeks in his hands. Neville tried to turn away, but Draco kept his grip firm, and the Gryffindor boy found himself unable to move as Malfoy slowly brought their lips together in a deep kiss. Neville gave him only five seconds before he broke away; but in those five short seconds, Draco worked as furiously as he possibly could, try to communicate something more to the Gyffindor boy than mere physical pleasure.

            “Again,” Dumbledore said.

            So they kissed again. Looking anguished, Neville took Draco roughly by the neck and drew him in for a much harsher kiss than before. Draco was grateful for the sudden rush of emotion, even if it was born more of despair than of self-assured love. He deepened the kiss and added some tongue, trying to get Neville to react even more strongly. It worked, and in another moment Draco was sure he even felt the wetness of Neville’s tongue on his cheek. But then he realized that a tear had escaped from Neville’s brimming eyes and mingled with the kiss.

            After about thirty seconds, Dumbledore stopped the pair. “Better,” he said. “Remember to kiss like that on the night of the play.”

            Draco broke apart from Neville and tried to catch the Gryffindor’s gaze. However, Neville merely gave him one sad glance before he turned heel and strode to the opposite end of the stage.

            “We have only three more dress rehearsals,” Dumbledore informed them. “On top of Wednesday and Friday afternoon, I’ve decided to also hold one on Thursday so as to make sure everything is perfect. Any questions?”

            Everyone kept their mouths shut, so Dumbledore let them go at eight minutes to 6:00. Hermione could have tried to squeeze in a few minutes with Professor Vector, but she didn’t bother; she pretty much had the project in hand by now, and she decided to write another four scrolls of the essay after dinner.

            “Let’s get out of here,” Harry whispered to Luna. So they left the Great Hall and headed outdoors. There were a few inches of snow on the ground, but the night air was above freezing, and Harry now knew how to cast a Warming Charm. Together they crossed the grounds until they reached the stables.

            “How’re you feeling about the play now?” Luna asked Harry.

            “Okay, I guess,” Harry sighed. “I’ve come to terms with it. I just want it all to be over with.”

            “It will be,” Luna said, a little misty-eyed, “in a week.”

            “And then I can focus my entire attention on you!” Harry grinned, giving her a kiss on the nose. She giggled and pinched his butt. “Hey!”

            They devoted the next while to kissing, and it need not be said that they both enjoyed themselves immensely. Then Luna touched Harry’s penis, and her eyes grew wide as she whispered, “Have they…?”

            “Yes,” Harry replied, smiling a little. “The Cockmice have held a marriage on the head of my penis. Again, I might add.”

            “Marvelous!” Luna said, clapping her hands together. “In that case…” And in one swoop she lifted her robe and her dress entirely above her head and threw them to the ground. She now stood in front of Harry in her bra and underwear. It was obvious she has chosen her undergarments carefully: the bra was sleek black, and the underwear was a thong. Harry’s eyebrows flew up as his jaw flew down, and his penis flew out. Luna grinned and said, “I feel the same way about you, you know. You are indeed an amazing young man, and I like you better than Neville. This is no offense to Neville, of course, because he is still better than most young men out there, but you really take the cake and feed it to the Shrezfifflits, too.”

            “I think I love you,” Harry whispered, trying for just one moment to disengage his brain from his testicles. “I think I love you very much. But… do we really… I mean… I want you—very badly. I want to make love to you, to fuck you, to do, well…”

            “Everything,” Luna supplemented.

            “Yes, everything,” Harry said, his mind blowing a fuse at the thought. “But, well… what happens if we’re rushing into it?”

            “Do you think we’re rushing into it?” Luna asked him, still smiling.

            “Well… no,” Harry said honestly. “It feels right. But at the same time, I’m worried with what happened to Ginny and me, and… um… I don’t want to same thing to happen again. Not that it will!” he added quickly. “I know it’s a different case entirely. Oh Merlin, I’m bollocksing this up right and proper!”

            “No, you’re not,” Luna said. “I understand you, and so does the Heebripple. We both agree that sex should only come when you’re certain about it … when both of us are, actually. How about for now we just continue kissing? Does that sound good?”

            “Yeah,” Harry said, smiling a little.

            So they kissed some more. Then they made love.

What is there to say? In between the kissing, they exchanged reflections. Harry started it off by saying, “It’s not right for me to compare this to my relationship with Ginny, is it?”

            “I compared it to my relationship with Neville,” Luna said reasonably after a few kisses. “So I suppose some comparisons do benefit us.”

            “I think, though,” Harry said around a bit of necking, “I should do a bit less comparing and a bit more contrasting. Because this is totally different from what Ginny and I had.”

            “Good idea,” was all the reply Luna gave him. Then she left the rest up to him.

            It was rather hard to think while he kissed, but by spreading his thoughts out over thirty minutes, he managed it. _Basically, I’m more mature now than I was when Ginny and I were together_ , he decided. _We had sex not because we were ready, but because we were afraid that Voldemort might kill us_ before _we were ready. Neither of us wanted to die a virgin!_

_But now, there is nothing pressuring us. If I say no, Luna wouldn’t think any less of me. She’s not like other girls, who’d accuse me of being gay. And that’s just one of the many things that makes me love her._

_I_ do _love her, don’t I! I really do!_

And thus Harry made up his mind. He loved Luna Lovegood. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes he made with Ginny. And he _did_ want to have sex with Luna. Mostly it was because he loved her, but a small part of his brain was willing to admit it was also because he’d been blueballing for two weeks now, and he’d finally and legitimately won a woman’s heart. Having sex right now didn’t feel rushed—it felt like the perfect time. Holding off any longer would only be feeding his own self-righteousness. So basically, sex with Luna Lovegood was a win-win situation.

            The first time with Ginny had been understandably awkward. They were both virgins, after all—it had hurt for Ginny, and Harry had climaxed entirely too early. But practice makes perfect, and now this first time with Luna was the best thing Harry had ever experienced in his entire life. On top of the fact they both knew what they were doing, Harry was also more mature than he had been when he was with Ginny, and so he now knew more clearly than then what he wanted in life. And what he wanted was the Ravenclaw girl that he held in his arms during his multiple climaxes. Fuck the morons who said heroin was better than sex— they obviously had no idea Luna Lovegood existed!

 

**********

 

            Draco seriously considered playing the “I love him, I love him not” game with himself, but after searching around the Hogwarts grounds for a whole hour in the gathering darkness, he found that all the flowers were dead. And so he realized that he’d have to make up his own mind what to do about Neville.

            What _did_ Draco feel for that unassuming Gryffindor boy? He didn’t rightly know.  When they had first fucked, Draco merely thought his penis was having a lucky day inside a most agreeably tight arsehole. Then, however, he and Neville had had sex again inside that broom cupboard. And then another time near the Astronomy Tower. In all, they had had four secret trysts since their first adventure in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, and each time had been better than the last. This had never happened before; most of the time Draco found the greatest pleasure in fucking someone for the first time; subsequent outings were not as gratifying, and in a few months he was tired of the person.

            _Have I developed feelings?_ Draco wondered as he stopped by the frigid lake. Thin sheets of ice floated around on the lake’s surface, remnants of a colder evening. _After all these years of fucking on the go, have I finally found someone I can settle down with? Holy Merlin, do I actually love Neville?_

            He had never loved anybody, not even Pansy! Especially not Pansy. His mum was okay, but she wasn’t the mothering type, and even when he was back at the Manor she tended to be distant. And his dad? What a fucking joke! And of course Draco didn’t love Crabbe or Goyle—they were his vassals, not his equals, and they definitely weren’t put in their positions to receive his affection.

            “I don’t know what love is!” he said aloud, knowing there was nobody to hear him. “How can I use the word if I can’t connect it to anything?”

            Maybe, then, he didn’t love Neville. Maybe it was just a queer sort of physical attraction that somehow spiked his emotions as well. Love, after all, was a word bandied about with too much frequency. It had too many definitions, and it was probably the most overused word in the English language. Maybe love didn’t even exist. It might just be some invention cooked up by ancient philosophers to keep the broad masses content.

            “So stop thinking about it already!” Malfoy told himself sternly.

            This was easier said than done. Malfoy ended up skipping dinner as a breath of fresh air become  a two-hour trek. The trees were bare, and the air was quiet. All the animals were gone for the winter, and he had the whole wide slate of the black sky to fill with his reflections.

            Most vivid in his mind was the image of Neville’s face—his wrinkled brow and his downturned lip, his sunken cheeks and his throbbing temple. And his eyes—his wide grayeyes that shone with tears, accusing Draco of breaking yet another heart and ruining yet another life. That was the one image Draco Malfoy could not banish from his head, and unless he did something to remedy this situation, that was the image that would haunt him.

            At around 8:30 Draco slipped back into the castle. He grabbed a quick bite of dinner from the Great Hall and headed down to the Slytherin Common Room all on his lonesome.

            When he arrived, he was in for a rude shock. The place was packed, and not only with Slytherins! No less than two dozen Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Gryffindors were there, too, most of them girls.

            “He’s here!” Hannah Abbot cried delightedly from the fireplace. “Hi, Draco!”

            None of them were wearing robes—rather, they’d tossed their robes over the couches and armchairs to reveal skimpy outfits beneath. Tanktops and sleeveless tops abounded, as did miniskirts and booty shorts. A few girls were simply wearing their bras; others went braless under their blouses.

            “Wh-what’re you all—?” Draco murmured, his eyes popping at the sight of them. They were a vast, multi-toned expanse of skin—a sea of neverending legs, protruding arses, and accentuated breasts. Necklines dived and bellies gleamed softly in the light. One of them scratched her crotch and sniffed her fingers afterwards. There was no way his penis couldn’t stir at the sight of it all.

            “Orgy in the Slytherin Common Room, remember?” Parvati said. “It turns out that some of the girls were just talking the talk—Lav and I tried to get Lisa Turnip to come, but she begged off for homework, of all things! Oh well, we still have a good thirty people. Will that be enough, Draco?”

            “Thirty…” Draco whispered, flabbergasted. That was way many more people than he had ever had sex with at one time. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even done a threesome before! It was always about his little games, where he went from one girl to the next until he came. As for a whole fucking thirty? That was unheard of!

            “We even got a few boys to join,” Millicent said. The gay Third-Year Slytherin waved, as did a small coterie of boys from Hufflepuff. “This is going to be the best orgy ever!”

            Wow! Well… Draco had never been part of an orgy before. And there was no fucking time like the present! And so he reached for the clasp of his robes.

            _HOLD IT!_ His newfound conscience kicked in, and that damn image of Neville blinked in front of his mind’s eye. _This is exactly why Neville hates me now. If I fuck all these girls, then I’m every bit as bad as he thinks._

Oh, come on! His penis twitched maddeningly, and his fingers played longingly with the clasp that fastened his cloak around his neck. He couldn’t deny his urges—Neville should understand that and let him get on with it.

            “Are you ready, Draco?” Hannah asked him slyly.

            _I’ll have to tell them no,_ Draco realized, a rock growing in his throat. _I’ll have to give some excuse, like homework or a test or_ something _._

            And a right idiot he’d look, doing that. What kind of single man would _ever_ forgo an orgy for homework?  Heck, even men in a relationship would join! If Draco refused, he’d look like a goody-goody. It wasn’t so much that Draco didn’t want to become good, but rather that, if he did become good, he’d have to endure literally years’ worth of embarrassing comments from every single girl in Hogwarts, plus a few of the forthright boys as well.

            _I shouldn’t care what they say,_ his conscience argued. _If I decline, it’s not as if they’ll accuse me of being gay—because I already have sex with boys on top of all the girls I fuck. I’m the sex god here, and they_ know _I can give a girl an orgasm. If I say no, it won’t make their past orgasms any less powerful._

            But really, just how ridiculous would he look if he refused? And just how regretful would his penis be? Already that member of his was begging to be let loose against all those fabulous breasts and vaginas and arseholes and fellow penises. He couldn’t deny his very self!

            _For Neville, I can do it._

            “Draaaaaaco?” Daphne purred.

            He opened his mouth to say that he didn’t feel like an orgy tonight. However, Lavender chose that moment to reveal a bronzed nipple as she eased her breast out of her bra, and Draco’s conscience died. “Let’s get this orgy started!” he heard himself say.

            It was an epic orgy. Two minutes in, every single penis, arse, breast, and vagina was exposed and ready for action. The gay Third-Year Slytherin left his shirt on but unbuttoned it. “That’s so, when you rub against it, I feel like I’m being continually undressed!” he proclaimed to a bunch of swooning girls. So Parvati took a leaf out of his book and left her thong on, though she skewed it so that both her front and back entrances were unobstructed.

            Thus began the orgy. First came the contest to see just how many people could fit on, around, or inside Draco at one time. Five girls managed to put their mouths on his erection, while two boys took him from behind, and three other boys more or less fit between his lips. A few other girls played around his thighs and nipples, and the ones that were left out played with each other. That was when Draco came the first time, squirting half a dozen people in the process. They all cheered and licked the semen off each other’s faces.

            For five minutes or so, Draco took to the sidelines to recover his libido and gargle a mouthful of spooj that one of the boys had left behind. Meanwhile, the others kept plunging and rutting. The noises were unbelievable: a veritable symphony of moans and grunts and the rustling of hair. Especially acute was the hollow smacking sounds produced by the friction of bodily parts slipping up and down inside the orifices they were pleasuring.

            Then Millicent traipsed over and put her mouth to Draco’s nipple. “Hey, big boy,” she said around slurps. “How about rejoining us?” She trailed her tongue from his chest to his ear when she suddenly caught sight of a young First-Year cowering on a sofa, trying desperately to concentrate on his homework. “Hey, you!” she cried.

            The little boy looked up, terrified.

            “Do you want to join us?”

            The little boy shook his head fiercely and quaked in his seat. “Homework!” he squeaked.

            “That’s alright,” Millicent said, grinning. “You can just watch. After all, voyeurism is participation.”

            Though the First-Year never joined, Draco definitely did, and in fifteen minutes he was once again quite hard. A dozen girls propped themselves against the wall with their legs spread wide, and he dipped into them, one after the other. On the opposite wall, all the boys had lined up facing forward, and Lavender took a suck on each of them before starting at the beginning of the line. After making each boy come, she coerced them into fingering her simultaneously until she found the big O herself.

            Thus the evening progressed. Within an hour the windows had misted over, and the carpet was matted with sexual juices and saliva. At 10:00 they started a game of genital tag. One person was It, and this person then had to tag somebody’s genitals with his or her own. Once that happened, the tagged person was it. It was a rough game—in an effort to tag somebody, people got pretty violent, even going as far as to slam their victims against the wall and ram their privates together. But that only made everyone enjoy it more.

            It was while this game was in session that the door to the Common Room opened, and Gregory Goyle stepped through. For a second he just stood there with no reaction except total shock. However, once he saw Draco his gawping turned into frowning, and he marched off to his dorm with a scowl on his face. Draco saw this and thought it was a bit weird, but he decided he’d worry about it after the orgy.

            All good things must come to an end. Thus the orgy wound down around 11:30 as the participants gradually ran out of libido and left the Common Room. Draco winced as he picked a bead of semen from his armpit, and he flopped down on one of the few armchairs that remained undisturbed by the orgy (in other words, it was still dry and had no rips).

            “Ah, now _that’s_ what I call orgytastic!” Millicent sighed as she meandered to the girls’ dormitories with Daphne. “We should do that more often.”

            Soon, Draco was all alone. The terrified First-Year had left the room long ago, and now the place was dead silent. His penis was limp, and his wellbeing was plummeting. He had just had an orgy: He should feel fantastic! And yet, he felt worse than he did before.

            Then Gregory Goyle pattered softly into the room, looking very serious. “Draco,” he said without greeting him, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

            “What the fuck, Goyle?” Draco whined, peeved. “I can do what I want.”

            “Sure,” Gregory said dismissively, “but this is the reason why you broke Neville’s heart.”

            How the hell did he find out? Draco quickly turned his face away, hoping that his silence would deny that he and Neville had done anything together (he didn’t trust himself to speak right now), but all it did was confirm it.

            “I’m not stupid, you know,” Goyle said. “I notice these things. In fact, Hermione noticed it, too; we were talking about it this morning.”

            “What the hell are you talking to Hermione for?” Draco snapped, glad for the change in subject. Now that Gregory had mentioned Neville, this morning’s guilt all came rushing back, and he realized the enormity of the evil he had just committed. “I forbid you to hang around with that Mudblood!”

            “She’s my girlfriend, Draco,” Gregory said quietly, yet coldly. “And that’s not changing any time soon. As for your attitude, I cannot do anything about it—only you can. And until you do, I’m not hanging around you anymore.”

            Had Draco heard that correctly? Did Gregory really just refuse to be around him? “What? Goyle, are you saying you don’t want to be my friend anymore?”

            Gregory coughed a little. “Consider it a separation,” he said, “not a complete divorce, as it were. I need a few weeks without you to see if you’re truly worth having as a friend.”

            “What the fuck?” Draco cried, furious. “How the hell do you think you have any right to do this?”

            “Over the Christmas holidays,” Gregory continued as if Draco hadn’t spoken, “and on into January, I’ll evaluate your behavior. If you haven’t had a total personality overhaul by then, I’ll have to dump you. I can’t have you dragging me down.”

            “This is all Hermione’s idea!” Draco yelled. “She’s trying to force you away from your friends because she’s a greedy bitch, and she wants you all to herself!”

            “No,” Gregory said simply. “This is something I’ve wanted—and needed to do—for the past six years. Now stay out of my way.”

            And that was that. Gregory went off to bed, and Draco remained naked by the fire, flabbergasted and overwhelmed.

            Fuck Gregory! He didn’t need that dumb boy as a friend anyway; he could get along just fine with Crabbe!

            _But Gregory isn’t dumb,_ he reminded himself. _He’s a right sight smarter than I am. What’s more, he’s actually grown a pair. Ever since Dumbledore started the play, he’s been growing in confidence and power. So has that Loser kid, come to think of it. And I hear Luna and Harry are very happy together. It seems that everyone has become a better person except me._

            Draco’s evil side could no longer argue against reason. He was a mess. Ever since the beginning of the school year, his confidence and self-worth had been flagging. He was a sex addict. He had no girlfriend. And he had no friends—no _real_ friends, that is. Crabbe counted for absolute fuck-all. Draco’s grades weren’t that stellar, and he wasn’t doing anything to improve society. In fact, the only thing he was good at was having sex, and all that had done in the past two months was a lot of fucking harm.

            This addiction had lost him friends, his girlfriend, and his only chance at love. It had lost him the respect of others and the cleaner reputation he could have had. All he could basically do now was to fuck people until he died. What else was there?

            _I could quit_ , he thought. _I could go cold turkey on the sex. And then I could apologize to Neville and win his heart. And then I could show Goyle how good I’ve been, and he’d become my friend again._

But fuck it all, that would require way too much work! First off, how the hell could he stop having sex for two days, let alone a couple weeks or (heaven forbid!) even a few months? Was he supposed to masturbate? He hadn’t done that in years, not when he had a million other people willing to do it for him!

            And was he actually supposed to _apologize_ to Neville and Goyle? He had never apologized, not once in his entire life! How the hell was he supposed to start now? All this becoming a better person just seemed like a miserable pursuit to him.

            _But not as miserable as being stuck in this role for the rest of my life_ , he realized. _How about I give it a try? No sex for a week. Let’s make it a game! If I manage to hold off, I win. And if I don’t, I lose._

            This was going to be the most painful fucking game he’d ever played.

 

~~~~~

 

            Two minutes later, the Slytherin Common Room was empty, as Draco had gone to bed. There was a pop, and two house-elves appeared. They both wore pillowcases, neither of which bore the Hogwarts crest.

            “You is to be cleaning up this mess,” the older house-elf said to the younger one.

            “Why, Mister Biddles, why?” the young one complained. “The milk spots is being all crusty and most difficult to remove!”

            “Junie is to be quiet and do what he’s told!” Biddles yelled, sending lashings of magic across Junie’s back. “It is being a pleasure to work! You is to be punishing yourself for your most impertinent remark. As for me, I is returning to Mistress Malfoy and is telling her all about the child wizards and witches and their games of mass mating.”

            He disappeared with a pop, leaving Junie by himself to clean up the stubborn sex juices from the rug. But first Junie conjured himself an iron and an ironing board. Still whimpering a little, he heated up the iron with a blast of magic, placed his left hand against the board, and began ironing. He let out a shriek of pain, upon which he jammed his mouth into his shoulder in order to muffle the noise. Once the skin was bubbling, he removed the iron and repeated the action with the other hand.

            By the time young Junie Banished the iron and the board, his entire arm was wracked with the pain that shot from his fingers. Even the tendons as far as his shoulder blades seemed to ache when he moved his hands. And even the slightest breeze against his fresh wounds made him want to cry out in anguish.

            To complete the punishment, he began a job that would take at least three hours, even with magic: Picking coagulated sex juices out of the carpet. Whimpering in exquisite agony, he grasped the first stubborn clot with his throbbing fingers and began working it up the matted fibers.


	22. In Which Harry Holds a Personal Grudge Against Stanley Kubrick

            The next day was the most triumphant Tuesday in Ivana’s whole life. She woke up at 6:00 as she always did, and within one hour and thirteen minutes she had taken a shower, brushed her hair, applied her Makeup Charms, made her bed, eaten her breakfast, and sent a Howler to the Howler company complaining that her Howlers weren’t working. She was just about to leave the house when her fire flared, and Narcissa Black’s head appeared amidst the emerald flames.

            “Ivana,” the rich Slytherin said stiffly, “We must hold a meeting in my manor in half-an-hour. One of my house-elves has just reported some shocking news.”

            “Wonderful!” Ivana crowed maliciously. Narcissa pulled her head out of the flames, allowing Loser’s mom to step in herself and shout, “Malfoy Manor!”

            After a few seconds of spinning, Ivana landed neatly in the fireplace of the Malfoy’s grand ballroom with hardly a speck on her. What little there was she flicked off with an air of contempt. “What is it, Narcissa?” she asked, stepping out into the room. “What has happened? Please tell me it’s something we can use against Dumbledore.”

            Narcissa Black stood a few meters away from the fireplace, stroking the fur that lined her black linen robes. “Let’s wait until the others arrive, and I’ll tell you then,” she said. “I’ve sent them all memos.”

            Ivana stared hard at Narcissa’s face. The mistress of Malfoy Manor always retained some degree of boredom in her mask-like features, but this time a manic glint tinged her eyes. It was hard to say whether she looked victorious or angry… or maybe vindictive. Ivana’s curiosity was definitely piqued.

            She didn’t need to wait long for fulfillment. Within the next thirty minutes, all the mothers had arrived. Their numbers had now swelled to eighty, with Narcissa and Ivana heading the group as always. Everyone sat down in the sleek black armchairs and waited for the meeting to begin.

            “I’ve got something to tell you all!” Mrs. Abbot blurted out into the silence.

            “Wait for it,” Ivana said, commandeering. “Narcissa is about to tell us something of great importance.” She motioned to Narcissa, who stepped forward.

            “One of the House-elf spies returned this morning,” she told the wide-eyed crowd. Everyone listened intently except for Mrs. Abbot, who was bouncing up and down in her seat, impatient to share her own bit of news. “He bore a most _shocking_ report. Last night, no less than thirty students conducted an orgy in the Slytherin Common Room.”

            Every parent gasped, and most followed up with scandalized comments. “That’s too awful to believe!” “I knew this play would be a bad influence, but I never saw _this_ coming!” “We must do something about it—today!” The level of agitation in the room was high as the parents blurted out these exclamations to anyone who was even half-listening.

            Ivana was close to hyperventilation as she allowed herself to swell with righteous wrath. “Oh holy Merlin, he must be stopped!” she cried, her voice echoing fearsomely in the grand ballroom. Everyone else fell silent and huddled in their armchairs, startled into silence by Ivana’s sudden cry. “We have let Dumbledore go way too far with his ridiculous ideas, and now we are reaping the consequences.”

            “You don’t think my precious Hannah had anything to do with the—the orgy, do you?” Mrs. Abbot whispered tremulously to nobody in particular.

            “The House-elf didn’t say,” Narcissa said, not that she cared about any student other than Draco. “All I know is that it took place last night in the Slytherin Common Room, but it included people from all houses.” And it was centered on Draco. But she wasn’t about to say that out loud.

            “That’s a bright lot we’ve raised,” Xenophilius hooted proudly. “Talk about from the mouths of babes and infants! We should take a page out of their book and conduct our own orgy.”

            “ _Stop_ with the unhelpfulness, Mr. Lovegood, or Narcissa _will_ ask you to leave!” Ivana snapped. She would say she didn’t know why Xenophilius still attended their meetings, except she had the sneaking feeling it was simply to aggravate her. “Now back to what I was saying. By allowing Dumbledore to remain in his position as headmaster, we have essentially sown the seeds of evil into the very school our children attend. As the cultivator of our sons’ and daughters’ interests, it is our duty to weed out every negative influence that could choke their wellbeing.” She spoke loudly and clearly, actually grateful for the orgy. It had sparked the parents’ ire and was the perfect accusation to use against the barmy old headmaster. Strike one against Dumbledore!

            “You just compared our children to plants,” Xenophilius said incredulously.

            “But of course,” Ivana said stiffly. “It is our duty to nurture them and shield them from the world’s harsh environment until they are fully mature. We must also give them the proper nutrients they need to grow. You wouldn’t water your potatoes with poison, would you?”

            “Potatoes?” Xenophilius half-laughed, half-scoffed. “You think our children are vegetables?”

            “It’s a metaphor!” Ivana said hotly. “It’s not meant to be taken literally! Now answer the question!”

            “You mean the one about watering a plant with poison? I most certainly wouldn’t! And I wouldn’t dream of feeding Luna poison, either.”

            “That proves my point!” Ivana cried triumphantly. “Since you wouldn’t feed a plant poison, why would we feed our children profanity and nudity? We shouldn’t!”

            The parents mumbled in agreement. Mrs. Abbot nodded like a bobble-head; she was so eager to speak she looked ready to lay an egg. She opened her mouth, but before she could squeeze a word in edgewise, Mr. Lovegood continued the argument.

            “Now here, Ivana, your logic becomes faulty. You say that profanity and nudity are poison, but they are clearly not. In fact, for the past four weeks, you have been comparing them to _filth_ and _dirtiness_. And I’ll have you know, as an experienced gardener myself, that filth (plus compost and a little bit of magic) does wonders to a growing plant. So, by your own logic, it is actually _vital_ for our children to reel off profanities and participate in orgies.”

            “That makes no sense at all!” Ivana screeched, stamping her foot on the expensive rug beneath her.

            “Hey, you’re the one who dreamed up the plant analogy!” Xenophilius said, throwing up his hands as if she was a particular offense to his senses. “I’m only building on what you started.”

            “I’VE GOT SOMETHING TO TELL YOU!” Mrs. Abbot couldn’t hold it in any longer. She let the words burst from her lips, stopping the argument cold. The parents all breathed sighs of relief. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

            “Then tell us!” Ivana sounded faintly annoyed that Mrs. Abbot had cut off the argument, but inwardly she was relieved. Mr. Lovegood’s keen grasp on debating and his aptitude at derailing her reasoning rather ruffled her. She had to watch herself from now on: She now suspected that Xenophilius came to the meetings not only to annoy her, but to upset her objectives as well. And that must never happen: She couldn’t let the editor of _The Quibbler_ make a fool out of her.

            “I work in the courtrooms down at the Ministry,” Mrs. Abbot said, “and I was reading up on some old cases from last century. I found one that particularly caught my eye, so I copied it and brought it here.” She pulled out short scroll and handed it to Ivana, who began scanning it with a manic concentration. “Basically, back in 1803 a few parents caught Headmaster Dwyrtle Plumm painting portraits of some of the students as they posed for him in the nude. It turned out he never physically touched them, so he wasn’t breaking any of the rules set out in the _Hogwarts Canon_ , but the court ruled that he be suspended from his position as headmaster for a year, followed by an indefinite probation.  Furthermore, any staff member found guilty of being in the presence of a naked student, with or without physical contact of any kind, was to be fired. It was never officially added into the _Hogwarts Canon_ , but as a court precedent the ruling still holds.”

            Ivana’s heart had been racing when Xenophilius was reaching the upper hand in their argument. Now, her heart was racing again, but this time out of sheer joy. She threw her arms into the air and screeched, “YEEEEEESSSS! Oh holy Merlin, thank you! Our dear children are finally safe!” Strike two against Dumbledore!

            “Let’s go get him arrested, then!” Narcissa said firmly. “Now that we have a charge, I can bribe a judge into giving us a warrant. I’ll leave right now, in fact!”

            “No, not yet!” Ivana cried. Narcissa stopped, and she, along with all the other parents, frowned curiously at Loser’s mum, wondering why she wanted to wait when she’d already been waiting for the past month.

            “Not yet,” Ivana repeated. “We must wait for the opportune moment, right at a time when Dumbledore can’t possibly weasel out or even post a bail. We want the play to be dead on its feet, and the way to do that is to get rid of the director at such a time that the kids cannot recover and put on the production themselves. So get the warrant, Narcissa, but we can’t act on it… not just yet, at any rate.”

            Her heart swelled in her breast, and her stomach soared as she got as close to an orgasm as her unsexed self would ever get. Putting the headmaster out of action at the last possible moment was strike three in her plan. And from there, Professor Dumbledore was officially out!

 

**********

 

            While Ivana had a glorious Tuesday, Madam Pomfrey couldn’t say the same. One First-Year stumbled in at 7:00 in the morning with half his hand blown off, and the matron had to pop him quickly into bed and force-feed him a beaker of Skele-Gro. He spat it out twice. And when he finally swallowed it, he went into convulsions of pain. For the rest of the day, his moans filled the Infirmary, and Madame Pomfrey was obliged to draw the curtains around his bed so that the other patients weren’t disturbed. These other patients, by the way, included a Slytherin who bled profusely out his anus, a Sixth-Year who had painfully burnt his chest hairs down to the follicles, and a Hufflepuff girl whose skin bubbled from a potion she’d spilled on herself in Snape’s class. Another student wandered in with a dying cat, and Madame Pomfrey sent her off to Hagrid in exasperation. And then McGonagall walked by and asked for a headache cure. That was never a good sign.

            “Are you feeling alright, Minerva?” Poppy Pomfrey asked her colleague.

            “It’s just a headache, Poppy,” Minerva said crisply. “It isn’t the end of the world.”

            “Something’s been bothering you,” the nurse pressed onward, knowing that McGonagall only asked for medicine if she truly needed it. “I can see it.”

            McGonagall retained a poker face as she rebutted, “I’m fine, Poppy. I am grateful for your concern.”

She didn’t sound very grateful. This made Madame Pomfrey even more suspicious, so she pried a bit deeper with soft words and a slight frown. “I can help make it better, if you only tell me what it is. Won’t you tell me, Minerva?”

McGonagall sighed and placed her hands on her hips. “Poppy, it’s nothing! Now just get me a headache cure! Please.”

            Madame Pomfrey had seen enough patients with suspicious symptoms to know when to back off. And so she did, but with much huffing as she doled out a pain reliever to the Transfiguration professor and sent her on her way. “No hanging around, now,” she said, knowing that a tinge of annoyance had crept into her voice. “You’ve a class to teach, and I have patients to cure.”

            The worst part of the day, however, came when Madame Pomfrey realized exactly what day it was. She had just placed a damp towel on the head of her Skele-Gro patient and was busy comforting him when she started in shock. “Ssssh, now, it’s alr— _wait a damn second!_ ”

            She rushed over to the calendar, praying she was wrong. She wasn’t. It was the second day of December. “Holy H. Q. fucking Merlin!” she breathed to herself. “Damn it all to hell!”

            A second later, the door opened, and Ivana the Tampon Lady strolled in, flexing her fingers and grinning like the Cheshire Cat. She didn’t even greet the matron but barged into her unoccupied office and began searching for the tampons. Madame Pomfrey balled her fists and resisted the urge to yell profanities at Loser’s infernal mother. She whirled furiously around on her feet and stalked back to her patient.

            In two minutes, Ivana was out of the office, twiddling a box of tampons between her hands. Madame Pomfrey determinedly kept her back to Tampon Lady, praying that she’d just leave with her new steal of vagina plugs. However, the matron’s luck was not that providential.

            “Dumbledore’s looking forward to his play.”

            “Aaugh!” Madame Pomfrey jumped and turned around to see that Ivana stood a mere three feet behind her. “Don’t _do_ that!”

            “He’s going to be severely disappointed,” her nemesis continued without apology. “Dumbledore’s days of ruining this school are over. By the end of this week, you’ll be free of his tyranny forever!”

            “What a _relief_!” Madame Pomfrey sighed, her voice laden so thick with sarcasm that her throat caked up.

            “You do not realize now how great your release will be,” Ivana continued inconsiderately, “but when he’s gone and you finally taste the freedom from his regime, you’ll wonder why you didn’t get rid of him years ago!”

            “Mmph,” Madame Pomfrey grumbled, muffling a yell that longed to escape from her lungs. Sometimes she wanted forget Hippocrates ever existed so she could Hex Tampon Lady into the world beyond the next! It was bad enough that she came in here once a month to steal tampons. It was bad enough that she was distracting Madame Pomfrey from her patients. How, then, could she dare assume that the staff would be glad to see Dumbledore leave? To what depths of insensitivity could this greedy bitch sink?

            But Madame Pomfrey stayed quiet. The more she said, the more Ivana took it as an invitation to hang around, and the nurse’s life was hell enough already. So she started a round of the silent treatment, and in half-a-minute Ivana left, too smug to be offended by the nurse’s attitude.

            _Thank fucking Merlin that cooze is gone!_ Madame Pomfrey swore to herself. _Now I can return to my work in peace_.

            And so she dabbed the washcloth on her patient’s head and cast a Cleaning Charm on the sweaty sheets. As she did this, a horrible feeling crept around her brain. She looked back at the door through which Tampon Lady had left five minutes ago.

            _She knows something_ , Madame Pomfrey realized. _That sneaky bitch has some trick up her sleeve. Just what is it, though?_

 

**********

 

            Tuesday became Wednesday, which became Thursday, and still Ivana hadn’t made her move. The dress rehearsal on Wednesday went marvelously, and all the students expected good things from Thursday’s practice. Whether it was because they couldn’t wait to act in front of a live audience or because they couldn’t wait to get the whole thing out of the way, the actual performances on Friday and Saturday could not come soon enough.

            Draco, however, wasn’t thinking about the play when classes let out at 3:00. Although he was going to head straight down to the Great Hall after dropping off his bags in his dormitory, his role as Godric Gryffindor was the last thing on his mind. What had swallowed his existence for the past three days was his penis.

            He was blueballing like nobody’s fucking business! For three days, he had longed for sex, and for three days he had not gotten it. Consequently, he had experienced many an endless bout in which his penis went through varying stages of an erection. He avoided touching it or bumping it or exciting it in anyway, and if he waited patiently, it would calm down. Then he’d massage his testicles to work the oxygen back into his blood, and for a few minutes he would get relief. Then, however, his mind would return to all the vaginas and mouths and arseholes that were waiting patiently for his penis, and he would become hard once again, intensifying the pain of his condition.

Draco walked bandy-leggedly into his dorm and dropped off his bags. “Oooh, how much longer?” he groaned to himself, unable to contain the dialogue within his head. “Oh holy Merlin, I need an ejaculation!” After the orgy, none of his sex objects bothered with anything as petty as privacy anymore. They stood in the halls and openly asked to fuck him. He begged off because of homework or because he was pressed for time, or because he’d become mysteriously ill, but he knew his excuses couldn’t last. Any day now everyone would become suspicious of his lack of sex. And it was getting increasingly hard to resist them, especially since he had an addiction that begged to be satisfied. He’d taken to spending his free time in his dormitory just to avoid it all.

            However, Draco wasn’t even safe in the confines of his dormitory. As he fell back against the bed and pummeled his hard penis in the hopes that the pain would shrivel it, a female leapt lightly onto his bed, her tail held high and her nose sniffing eagerly at Draco’s privates.

            Yes, it was Brittany the cat, still in the tremendous throes of heat, and she _still_ had not yet been fucked.

            “I just want to tell you, Brittany,” Draco gasped, “that I now know how you feel. You’ve been going for months without sex, and it must have been the worst torture in your whole short life! I’m sorry for making it worse: I’m sorry for pushing you and kicking you and yelling at you, when all you wanted was a good lay.”

            “ _Meow_ ,” Brittany replied. She turned around and spread her legs, revealing her moist vulva. Draco gulped and stared at the quivering privates, his mind short-circuiting.

            “Now, now, Brittany,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “It’s okay. Run off and find a minx in the sack, there’s a good kitty.”

            He gently tried to cover her privates with her tail, but she was insistent. “ _MEOW!”_ she cried, thrusting the tensile appendage into the air. She backed in between Draco’s legs and rubbed herself against his raging erection.

            “DON’T!” Draco shrieked, leaping out of his bed. Brittany hissed fiercely and rubbed herself against his pillow, leaving sex juices that stained the white linen. “Don’t… _tempt_ me, you evil cat! I… I won’t give in!”

            And he rushed out of the room, pulling his robes around his obvious erection. He only hoped it would fade during play practice.

 

~~~~~

 

            Everyone entered play practice that afternoon with a case of the jitters. Neville nearly tore his costume trying to put it on, and Harry tripped over Luna’s feet as they walked through the doors hand-in-hand. Everyone was acutely aware that they were one day away from their grand stage debuts, and despite the flawless practice on Wednesday, they were all uniformly terrified.

            Dumbledore did something to make it a million times worse. When all the cast and crew had gathered onstage, he strode into their midst with an announcement. “We’re adding a new musical number!” he cooed joyfully. “How does that sound?”

            Everyone drew in a collective gasp. The chorus extras groaned, while the rest of the actors looked back and forth in terror, wondering who’d be singing the new song.

            “Actually,” Dumbledore said, “it’s a reprise of a previous number. And it involves no choreography. It’s just straight singing.”

            Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. “Whew!” Harry said aloud. “I’m glad this won’t be an ordeal, and one day before the play, no less! We don’t need any more upsets.”

            “You are absolutely correct, my dearest Master Potter,” Dumbledore said. “By the way, it is you and Luna who will be doing the reprise.”

            “Ah, dang it,” Harry said light-spiritedly. “Which number?”

            “ ‘I’ve Loved You and Have Never Said a Word,’ ” Dumbledore replied. “From Act II, you know. Oh, but I’ve added one verse. No, half-a-verse.  It’s really very simple. During the reprise, you’ll both walk to the front of the stage and face the crowd. You’ll sing through the refrain, then verse 1, then the refrain again. Then you’ll start spinning slowly, first at arm’s length, then draw closer to one another as you sing these words:

 

_“Was life this full before? I cannot say,_

_For our past pales in light of our today.”_

            Harry pouted at Dumbledore and raised an eyebrow. “You said no choreography,” he said in exasperation. “And twirling slowly or whatever we’re doing is most definitely choreography.”

            “Oh, my dear boy, you know what I mean!” Dumbledore said lightly, waving a hand at him. “ _Next to no_ choreography. It’s really very simple. And I insist you two take the scene as deliberately as possible. Sing it twice as slowly as you do in Act II, and with lots of pauses, in which you’ll either face the audience or face each other in profile.”

            “Why?” Harry asked, his pout deepening into a frown. “What about the two-hour runtime you were trying to achieve?”

            “It’ll have to be two hours and four minutes,” Dumbledore conceded. “But I must include the reprise.”

            “Why?” Harry pressed. “Four minutes is awfully damn long for a reprise. Don’t you think the audience will get bored?”

            “Of course not, dearest boy,” came the flippant reply. “They’ll be too busy staring at your penis.”

            There was a beat of silence. Then another beat. Harry blinked twice per beat and lost control of his jaw. At the same time his eyebrows jutted so strongly into his hairline it looked like his face was separating from the shock. When he regained his voice, it was barely above a whisper “What?” he said. “My… Dumbledore, this isn’t funny.”

            “But I’m not going for funny!” Dumbledore said, though he laughed jovially. “I’m seeking the line between super-sensual and erotic and treading it for seven minutes straight. If you haven’t already guessed, this reprise is happening in Act IV, scene iii, after you two have taken your clothes off. You and Luna will pretend to have sex—make it rough and passionate!—and afterwards you’ll exhibit yourselves during a four-minute reprise. How does that sound?”

            Harry was so furious he couldn’t speak. His draw dropped so low that he was sure his face would unhinge if he opened his mouth any wider. He wasn’t the only one with an open mouth; just about every person in the room attracted to the male sex was gaping at Dumbledore, so much so that a House-elf popped onto the stage to wipe up the drool. “That’s more like the line between erotic and pornographic!” Euan Abercrombie breathed in awe.

            “Try the line between pornographic and illegal acts involving minors!” Harry burst out, finally finding his voice again. He strode across the stage from one end of the proscenium to the other, treading a severely elliptical orbit around Dumbledore as he built up his legendary temper.

            “You are both of age,” Dumbledore said, faintly annoyed.

            “Oh, great!” Harry yelled back. “Fucking great! Is that what they say now? Apparently _‘He looked of age’_ and _‘She was begging for it’_ don’t work anymore! Now it has to be, _‘Oh, they may be students, but they’re seventeen.’_ Dumbledore, we ARE students! We’re your fucking _students_ , you sick pervert!”

            “Now Harry, that’s being a little harsh,” Dumbledore said, pursing his lips. “I don’t technically _teach_ you—I’m just your headmaster.”

            “Your _students_!” Harry yelled again, ignoring the headmaster’s insertion. “Why, Dumbledore, why?”

            Dumbledore waited a moment, just to make sure Harry had let out enough steam so that he didn’t interrupt. “I could lie, Harry,” the headmaster said. “I could lie and say that the play needed another reprise, that the scene needed a musical number to add to the emotional impact. But I stand for honor and justice and the education of our students, so when I can, I tell the truth.”

            As Harry stopped pacing, Dumbledore began pacing himself, much more methodically than his century-younger pupil. “The truth…” he uttered, weighing each word on his tongue. “The truth is a beautiful—and terrible—thing. If not treated with caution, it can devastate the very core of our lives. And yet, if we hide the truth, we further devastate everything that we, as wizards of the Light, stand for.

            “And so I tell you the truth. I extended the nude scene for one reason: Last night, as I lay in bed with my dear friend Connie, we watched _Eyes Wide Shut_.”

            Harry waited, dumbfounded, for Dumbledore to put this statement in a more reasonable light. He didn’t. Hermione, however, nodded as if everything now made perfect sense. Goyle turned to her and whispered, “You’ve watched _Eyes Wide Shut_ , too?”

            “Of course!” Hermione said. “I’m shocked you’d think otherwise! Stanley Kubrick is only the best director of all time!” Goyle bobbed his head in fervent agreement.

            “Twenty-five points to Gryffindor and Slytherin,” Dumbledore said. “Harry Potter, I hope you’re listening to your best friend. Stanley Kubrick can do no wrong. Therefore, any deed we do to be more like Stanley Kubrick is a good deed. And thus, if Stanley Kubrick has a scene featuring ten minutes of straight nudity, then you _must_ give me at least a deficient seven.”

            “What?” Harry wailed. “That makes no sense, Dumbledore!”

            “How does it not?” Dumbledore queried. “I just explained it perfectly.”

            “Actually, it doesn’t really make sense,” Hermione corrected her headmaster. “Because _Eyes Wide Shut_ isn’t an erotic thriller. It’s a psychosexual drama, and it’s not meant to be sexy, so it doesn’t really translate from that film to this play.”

            “I’m aware of that,” Dumbledore said. “I’ve watched the film a dozen times, after all, and I know nobody could ever recreate the mood in that scene. Besides, I’m not going for creepy. All I’m trying to translate is the thoroughly deliberate nature of the nudity. I want the naked bodies to _be there_ … onstage, for minutes on end without giddy interruption. It’ll be an elegant scene featuring two lovers in an intimate moment. Think how beautiful it will be!”

            “Think how _humiliating_ it will be!” Harry railed, his entire body trembling. When he clasped his hand to his temple, it came away wet with perspiration. “I’m going starkers… in front of a thousand people! _For_ _seven cunt-fucking minutes straight!_ I fucking hate Stanley Kubrick! I hope he goes to hell and dies!”

            “Fifty points from Gryffindor!” Dumbledore cried, very much affronted. “I don’t _ever_ want to hear you saying something like that about Stanley Kubrick again! He died just four days after submitting the final cut of _Eyes Wide Shut_ to the studio— _now_ how do you feel?”

            “If he’s in hell, I feel great!” Harry spat mutinously, despite the urgent hisses from other Gryffindors to keep quiet.

            “Another fifty points,” Dumbledore said severely, eliciting a collective groan from Harry’s housemates. “Now why are you so against appearing naked onstage? It’s just nudity!”

            Harry opened his mouth before he realized that he had no explanation for why exactly he was against appearing nude onstage. But really, why the hell did he _need_ an explanation? Couldn’t he beg off for modesty, or was that omitted from Dumbledore’s feverish equations? “I… I just don’t like it!” he spluttered. “It’s… I’m just embarrassed by it! Can’t you understand that?”

            “No, I can’t,” Dumbledore replied crisply. “Luna isn’t fazed by this nudity thing at all. As an actress, she realizes that delivering a strong performance is more important than maintaining some misguided idea of dignity. Are you _trying_ to sabotage my play, Harry?”

            This was so unfair that Harry starting pacing again solely to stop himself from punching Dumbledore in the face. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me! This is not about me ruining your stupid fucking play, this is about you _using_ me to enhance some juvenile fantasy that you still haven’t purged from your system. I refuse to be guilted into doing a nude scene by someone who’s been manipulating me for my entire life!”

            “My dear boy,” Dumbledore said grievously, “ _Manipulating_ is a harsh word. I haven’t done anything of the—”

            At that very moment, an owl swooped down from the rafters and dropped a letter on Harry’s head. He snatched it furiously as it fluttered to the ground, and with shaking fingers he tore apart the seal and began reading furiously.

 

_Harry,_

_After what you did to Aunt Marge, I fucking hate you. I’m only writing to you because I want to gloat over your humiliation. Mum and Dad told me about how Dumbledore’s making you appear naked in that stupid play of yours, and we all agreed that he chose you because you’re famous and will glue arses in the seats. Hah, only goes to show that all that fame will backfire on you! I hope it’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you!_

_I hate you._

_Dudley_

 

            So here’s what this letter was all about: During the war, Voldemort had decided to taunt Harry by killing off his relatives. As the Dursleys had been visiting Aunt Marge at the time, she ended up being involved in the fight as well. The Order managed to whisk the Dursleys to safety, but not before Aunt Marge lost her life. Dudley now hated Harry for it. Aunt Marge had given him the most money and the biggest presents, and now she was gone. If Harry was as shallow as Dudley, he’d be mad about that, too.

            Right now, however, Harry had no energy to spare over the depths of pettiness to which his fat cousin would sink. Every fiber of his being was focused on the implications of one single line: _“He chose you because you’re famous…”_

            A fire raged in Harry’s eyes. His limbs trembled in fury, and he didn’t even pay attention when he emitted a wave of accidental magic that lacerated every window in the hall with spider-hair cracks. All his hatred was focused on one man: the old headmaster who stood in front of him, grinning like a barmy hare.

            “You… you _manipulator_!” Harry cried, his voice shaking. “I was right to say it—you’ve been using me!”

            “My dear boy, I can explain—”

            “YOU’VE BEEN USING ME!” Harry exploded, stamping his foot into the floor. “You don’t want me to act—you just want me for my sex appeal! You want me to stand naked in front of a thousand people because it’ll swell your box office!

            “My whole life you’ve been manipulating me! You put me with the Dursleys— _the fucking Dursleys!_ —‘for my own good.’ Oh Merlin, I hated my childhood, and you could have prevented that! You could have sacrificed my safety for my happiness, but _no_ , you _had_ to give me to the three fuck-arse people who hate me the most. And then after that, you let me risk my life literally _dozens_ of times, when in most cases you could have stepped in and fixed things for me. Oh, but you let me do that because it made me _stronger_ , so that when I had to kill Voldemort—when I had to _kill_ another man AT FUCKING SIXTEEN, I’d be ready! Speaking of killing Voldemort, you didn’t tell me about that until a _full year_ after he came back. A FULL FUCKING YEAR! Guess what? I watched students die in front of me! I watched Cedric get cut down with the exact same curse that killed my parents. I watched Lee Jordan get _Crucio_ ’d to death, and there was nothing I could do about it! I saw Death Eaters raping a _four-year-old_ and her little baby brother in the middle of Diagon Alley, and I was so mad I killed them, but it didn’t help, because it didn’t mend her shattered hymen or restore the anal blood loss that killed the boy, and I also had a slew of murders on my conscience to deal with, and I _still_ have nightmares about it to this day, and it’s all your fault because you said you’d diverted the attack when, in fact, you failed to do so!”

            He managed the last sentence without inhaling once. He huffed painfully, gulped in a lungful of air, and continued.

            “I thought I was done with all that! When the war ended, I was sure you’d let me return to my life. I was positive that you were through with your manipulations, that you’d finally treat me like a student instead of an instrument, but I was wrong. You _still_ want to mess up my life for _your_ gain! You think you know how to set everything right, but guess what? YOU DON’T! You don’t know a single fucking thing!”

            “My dear boy—”

            “I don’t want to hear it!” Harry snarled. “I’m sure whatever explanation you have sounds logical in your mind, but you know what? Yours is a twisted mind, a twisted logic. And I don’t want to hear it.”

            With these words, Harry leapt off the stage and strode towards the door in a towering fury. As he neared the other end of the hall, he turned around and yelled, “DON’T FOLLOW ME! I’M NOT SETTING ANOTHER FOOT ON THAT STAGE EVER AGAIN!”

            He stormed through the double doors, slamming behind them. For the briefest sliver of a split second you could hear a pin drop, but then the reverberations caused the windows to groan loudly before they shattered simultaneously, showering a cascade of noisy glass across the ground. Everyone stood as if petrified, listening dumbly to the cacophony of window fragments that bounced across the polished stone floor.

            When the last tinkle faded into silence, the theater troupe held position for a few second longer until Dumbledore finally slumped forward. “Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger?” he said wearily.

            “Yes, Headmaster?” they replied in unison.

            “You know the day when Harry confessed just how extensively the Dursleys had been abusing him?”

            “Yes,” Ron said grimly, cracking his knuckles.

            “You know all the plans you came up with to take revenge on them?”

            “Yes,” Hermione said, fondling her wand vindictively.

            “I give you permission to do everything you were planning, and more. Those darn Dursleys! They ruin everything.”

            Hermione and Ron turned to each other and shrugged. “Might as well,” Ron said. “I _still_ hate those fucking Dursleys, and Dumbledore’s always stopped us from taking revenge before.”

            “Let’s go for it!” Hermione said evilly. And the two rushed off to perpetrate a wide variety of revenge-oriented nastiness against Harry’s abusive relatives.

            Meanwhile, the rest of the cast stared at Dumbledore. Nobody knew what to say after that huge row, so they left the burden of the next spoken word on the headmaster. He tried to rise to the occasion, but he didn’t exactly succeed. “For heaven’s sakes,” he muttered ineloquently. “I hate it when he pulls the death card… And the abusive relative card… It’s only a bit of nudity!”

            “We can’t do our dress rehearsal without Harry,” Draco pointed out, straight-faced.

            Dumbledore sighed and tapped his foot against the floor. “Can we get him back? How long does he sulk like this?”

            “It depends,” Neville supplied. “Sometimes a few hours.”

            “And sometimes a few days,” Luna added, looking utterly unfazed. “He may even refuse to act on opening night.”

            “Hmm,” Dumbledore sighed. “Goshdarn it all to twitting heck. Well, well. I guess you all can go, then. Practice your lines!”

            And so the students left, leaving Dumbledore alone on the empty stage.

            Was Harry right? Had Dumbledore been using the young boy again? Was he merely a manipulating old man? He was so convinced that this play would help his students become better people, and for the most part it had. Loser seemed to finally be gathering his own moral fiber—he wasn’t quite the strong person he could become, but Dumbledore felt that the Hufflepuff boy was right on the verge of inheriting his true persona. Then there was Ron: Drawing him out of his macho shell had worked like a charm. Forcing Neville and Draco to wrestle naked seemed to have awakened something in Draco that wasn’t there before—what exactly it was, Dumbledore didn’t know, but it seemed beneficial. He’d also helped Ginny and Pansy escape their failing relationships quicker than they might have otherwise. And that Gregory Goyle/Hermione Granger matchmaking had been a brilliant move on his part!

            See? He had done so much good amongst his student body already! Not only had he improved their personal lives, but he was also teaching them to stand up against censorship and illogical authority. That was always a much-needed trait in this world, whatever the time and place.

            Basically, the only person who hadn’t benefited was Harry Potter. Again. Everything that happened seemed to improve everyone’s life except Harry’s. Why did fate have it in for that poor boy?

            “Come now, Albus!” he scolded himself aloud. “This is ridiculous, the boy is overreacting! I don’t know what’s so bad about showing your penis to a crowd of people. I’d have done it at his age. Heck, I’d do it now!”

            And thus the moral quandary stood. Harry was being stupid, but did Dumbledore have the right to change that?

 

**********

 

            After dinner, Dumbledore headed back up to his office with a jumpy heart and a quivering stomach. Tomorrow was the grand opening of his masterpiece play, and one of his stars had run off. He had not appointed understudies: He had handpicked every actor for a reason, and replacing any of them would screw the whole play over.

            _Chin up, Albus_ , he comforted himself. _Tomorrow morning I’ll get Miss Granger and Mister Weasley to talk some sense into him. Everything will be all right._

            But despite this mental bolstering, Dumbledore still felt a mounting pile of worry in his stomach. He threw a handful of Floo powder into his fireplace and stuck his head in, calling out, “Connie’s place!”

            After a minute of spinning which Dumbledore found delightfully disorienting, his head appeared in a small fireplace, looking out into a cozily furnished apartment. It wasn’t a particularly big place, but the abundance of creature comforts—the plush sofa, the crafts projects, the myriad of books, and even a widescreen TV—left the beholder in no doubt that Connie was comfortably, if not richly, situated. Connie herself sat on a sofa surrounded by pillows and throws that looked soft to the point of being sinful.

            “Hey, Connie,” Dumbledore said forlornly.

            “Hi there, old man!” she said eagerly, looking up from the slim volume of poetry she had been reading.

            “I feel depressed,” he said. “I need some rough sex to cheer me up.”

            “Why, sure!” Connie said compassionately, placing her book of poetry aside. “Can you bring me on through? “

            “Yes, just a second,” Dumbledore said. As Connie heaved her old body off the sofa, Dumbledore sent his hand through the Floo connection. When it appeared in Connie’s apartment, she was there to grab it, and it was only a matter of seconds until the two of them landed on the floor of Dumbledore’s office, Connie on top.

            “You wanna tell me what’s the matter, old man?” she asked as she slid her skirt up her wrinkled thigh.

            “Sex first, talking second,” Dumbledore said firmly, working her blouse over her head.

            “And sex third!” Connie hooted. “Good choice, Alby!”

            They undressed each other on the floor of Dumbledore’s office. From there, Connie started manipulating Albus’s penis with her wrinkled hands, while he lifted one of her stretched breasts into his mouth. They both moaned in cracked, old-people voices.

            It was as they became comfortable with this position that the door burst open. In walked two Aurors, followed by eighty women. As soon as they caught sight of the two-person performance, they all stopped short, and most of the women screamed. Dumbledore let Connie’s breast drop out of his mouth just long enough to ask, “Do you mind giving us a bit of privacy? We’re trying to have sex.” Then he reinserted the breast and started sucking. Connie’s hands had never once left his hardening penis.

            “ALBUS DUMBLEDORE!” Ivana cried dramatically, her voice filling with an awful swell of emotion: malicious triumph mixed with the trauma of viewing an old couple having rough sex. “We have a warrant for your arrest!”

            “Oh, not this again!” Dumbledore sighed around Connie’s nipple. She gave a squeal of delight.

            “Stop it this instant!” Ivana shrieked.

            “Stop doing what?” Dumbledore continued, sending reverberations through Connie’s chest.

            “Stop doing… _that!_ The Aurors have the warrant here with them, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

            “Oh, fuck, that feels marvelous!” Connie breathed in rapture as Dumbledore continued his ministrations. “D’you mind doing that against one of my secret entrances? Like the back one?”

            “Sure,” Dumbledore said. They began switching the position of their leathery bodies.

            “Aurors, what are you waiting for?” Ivana shrieked, trying to not look at Connie and Albus. “Handcuff him immediately!”

            Dumbledore’s mouth was only an inch away from Connie’s anus when the Aurors suddenly jerked him back and snapped a pair of enchanted handcuffs around his wrists.

            “Hey!” Connie cried indignantly. “Don’t do that, he was about to suck my—”

            “You go somewhere and _die_ you mangy old… you mangy old _female dog!_ ” Ivana cried at Connie. She turned to survey Dumbledore, naked and handcuffed, and her heart swelled with pride. “Oh, Albus Dumbledore,” she gloated, “your time is through, old man, your time is _through!_ ”

            She marched from office with the naked Dumbledore, two Aurors, and eighty mothers in tow. Connie shuffled backwards toward the door, her arse jutting out at an obscene angle. “Hey, you guys get back here!” she yelled. “One of you had better stay behind and finish this!”


	23. Courtroom Drama

            Early Friday morning Hermione stumbled into Arithmancy out of breath, loaded down with a dozen books in her bag and ten rolls of parchment in her arms. Vector stood by the door with her wand in her hand, collecting the Arithmancy projects as each student walked in. As soon as Hermione saw her, she shoved the scrolls at her; Vector magicked them into a cohesive group and set them in a large box on a back-row desk. “Thank you, Miss Granger,” she said with a smile.

            “Thank _you_ ,” Hermione sighed. This project was out of her hands, and she was so relieved. That Professor Vector was waiting by the door only made her happier: She wanted that projected out of her hands as soon as possible, and here her professor stood ready to whisk it away. If only all teachers were as compassionate!

            Her Arithmancy project was crap. She just knew it. It looked okay when she first wrote it, but the revision process had been hell; her sentence construction was terrible, her outline incoherent, and her points totally irrelevant. She was sure she’d get a bad grade on it.

            _But do you know what?_ Hermione thought, _I don’t care anymore! It’s all over with. It’s out of my hands, and there’s nothing I can do now except rejoice that it’s done._ With this comforting thought, she trudged to her seat and collapsed in it.

            No sooner had she pulled out her books and opened her notes than the magically enhanced voice of Professor McGonagall boomed throughout the school: “Will the cast and crew of Dumbledore’s play please report immediately to the Great Hall? I repeat, will the cast and crew of Dumbledore’s play please report immediately to the Great Hall?”

            “Damn it,” Hermione muttered to herself as she repacked her bags. What could Dumbledore want that was important enough to interrupt classes? Did it have to do with Harry? Her best friend had spent all yesterday fuming in his dormitory, and today he’d wandered off to the Astronomy Tower and refused to go to class, even though she’d given him an earful over it. For some reason he hadn’t taken it well when she’d predicted that he’d get a T on all his NEWTS. He stormed off after that, leaving her frustrated at his current state of mind. Was he even now, two hours later, still unreasonably furious? Was Dumbledore planning on replacing him?

            “Off you go, then, Miss Granger,” Professor Vector said as Hermione strode past her. “Don’t forget to get the notes from someone else.”

            “Will do,” Hermione said over her shoulder. Then she was out of the room and down the hallway.

            Five minutes later, Hermione traipsed into the Great Hall just as the last of the fifty cast and crew members came in behind her. Everyone was gathered in the center of the room between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. Professor McGonagall was there, along with Professor Flitwick and even Professor Snape, but there was no Dumbledore. _Where is that old man?_ Hermione wondered.

            “What’s going on?” Ron asked Hermione as they pressed closer toward the three teachers.

            “No idea,” Hermione replied. “Have you seen Harry?”

            “Still skipping,” Ron said, giving a helpless little shrug. “I’ll try to talk to him during lunch. How ‘bout I tell him that it’ll be all over in two days, and that he can prank the balls off of Dumbledore for the rest of the year? How ‘bout I even plan out some tricks with him? Do you think that’ll get him around?”

            “Your guess is as good as mine,” Hermione said gravely. “I hope to Merlin that’ll to the trick.”

            “Attention, please,” McGonagall cried into her purple megaphone. “Attention, all of you.” The students’ chatter died down quickly, thanks mostly to a helping glare from Snape. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

            “Ooh, this can’t be good,” Ron whispered seriously to Hermione.

            “Is it about Dumbledore?” Orla Quirke called out.

            “Yes, it is,” McGonagall said, pitying the students as they blinked owlishly in the sudden grip of apprehension. Hermione felt a knot of worry fill her stomach—a bigger knot, that is, than was already present from pre-performance jitters. “I have just learned from the portraits in Professor Dumbledore’s office that he…” she choked a little and had to compose herself. Hermione’s heart plummeted. Had Dumbledore died? He was the oldest living thing on campus by now, and however indestructible he seemed, he, too, had to kick the bucket at one time or another. After all, just how many decades above 100 years was he? _Please don’t be dead, Dumbledore!_ Hermione begged silently. _Please…_

            “He…” McGonagall continued, “Professor Dumbledore has been arrested.”

            “Whew!” Hermione said aloud. “That’s not so…” Her voice trailed off as Ron turned to her, looking a bit sick. “Oh… oh Merlin… The play!”

            “Without the headmaster, the play will have to be cancelled,” Professor McGonagall said, her voice quivering. And before she could continue, the hall burst into outrage.

            “That’s no fair! We spent two months working on that play!”

            “Don’t tell me I memorized all my lines for nothing!”

            “We didn’t stay up two weeks to design and sew all those fucking costumes, only to have the play cancelled!”

            Professor Snape glared at all of them and sent off a loud firecracker from the tip of his wand. He looked so terrifying in the painfully red glow that the students fell silent right away. “Professor McGonagall would finish,” he snarled, “if you lot had the grace to be quiet for longer than the five seconds with which your pitiful attention spans allow you to cope.”

            So the students stayed quiet for five seconds. After ten, McGonagall stepped forward. “Thank you, Professor Snape. Anyhow, as I was saying, if we cannot retrieve the headmaster before tonight’s play, we shall have to cancel.”

            “But he’s been arrested!” Draco burst out. “How can we get around that?”

            “The charges were trumped up,” McGonagall said. “The parents found some loophole and likely bribed a judge to hear the case.”

            “What, so do we have to pay bail or something?” Justin Finch-Fletchley asked. “Because if we can’t get him back before the trial, we’re fucked.”

            “Ten points from Hufflepuff, Mister Finch-Fletchley,” McGonagall said severely. “I don’t ever want to hear you use that kind of language again… outside tonight’s play, that is. As I said, the charges are trumped up. So is the trial—it is taking place in thirty minutes in Courtroom 10 in the Ministry of Magic.”

            This was followed by another small uproar. “That’s barely enough time to get there, let alone plan a legal defense!” Dean Thomas yelled.

            “Then we’d better do some quick thinking!” McGonagall said severely. “I’ll be damned if those parents get away with canceling two months of your hard work—and for what? So they can keep the illusion that you’re still children who can’t judge for themselves? I don’t think so!”

            And she marched from the Great Hall. “Keep up!” she snapped. The students looked nonplussed at the outburst, but they shrugged and jogged after her. Snape and Flitwick took the rear, and together the fifty students and three teachers headed out onto the grounds.

            “Hypocrite,” Justin mumbled as they stumbled down the steep path to the gates. The skies were gray, and the ground was soft from a leftover snow. “How come she can swear and I can’t?”

            “There’s a big difference between _fuck_ and _damn_ , Justin,” Hermione said. “Now let’s stop thinking about that and start thinking up a way to get Dumbledore out of this mess.”

            “It’ll be like a debate,” Ernie said excitedly. “We have to figure out some real solid points that’ll make the case against Dumbledore too weak to hold up.”

            “Good idea, Ernie,” Luna said mildly. “I’ll tell them that the Heebripple supports the nudity, and thus it should be allowed. That should work, I think.”

            “Yeah,” Ernie said, ignoring her. “Anyway, what I’m thinking is that… is that… wait, to which loophole did Dumbledore fall victim?”

            “The parents found one court case from the beginning of the 19th Century,” saidMcGonagall, who had fallen back when she sensed an idea brewing. “Its ruling forbids that the headmaster and the staff be in the presence of nude students.

            “Okay, then,” Ernie said brightly, “we just tell them that Harry and Luna aren’t going to go starkers until tonight.”

            “We can’t actually say their names, though,” Hermione said, “thanks to Dumbledore’s spell. But yeah, Dumbledore hasn’t broken the law, so he shouldn’t have been arrested.”

            “But he was going to break the law tonight,” Professor McGonagall countered. “And the parents are sure to bring that point up. I’m sure they’ve rigged the jury or some other such nonsense. I must be honest: Thing are looking mighty grim at the moment.”

            At this point they reached the gate. Snape and Flitwick opened it, and in another minute all of them were outside the Hogwarts grounds. “We’ll Apparate from here to the Ministry,” McGonagall said. “Those who can’t Apparate will side-along with those who can.” The students grouped off until everyone had a witch or wizard with a license to Apparate. Then McGonagall vanished, taking three Third-Years with her. Everyone else followed in close succession, leaving nothing behind but a swirl of dust in the cold winter air.

            They appeared inside the Ministry moments later at the designated Apparation Checkpoint. As big as their group was, it flooded the platform and knocked a dozen unfortunate Ministry workers to the ground. Half the students were on the floor, disoriented and a little sick. One Second-Year threw up. Euan Abercrombie gaped in shock as he tried to push himself to his feet, only to realize that his legs had detached themselves during the journey; Justin Finch-Fletchley had Splinched the two of them.

            “Are you all right, Miss Meadowpatter?” McGonagall asked the girl who had thrown up.

            “Yes,” she said, stepping away from the vomit. Lavender Conjured her a glass of water, and the girl gratefully took a large mouthful, swirled it around, and spit it on the floor. “Thanks,” she said. “I feel a lot better without the leftover chunks in my mouth.”

            “Will you be able to continue?” McGonagall asked her. “And you, Masters Abercrombie and Finch-Fletchley.”

            “It’s just a Splinching!” Euan Abercrombie said quickly. “We can fix it later. Justin, would you mind—?”

            “Not at all,” Justin said quickly. He gathered up Euan’s legs, along with his nose, his ears, one of his arms, and one of his eyeballs. “Hey, Lavender, take—”

            “Eurgh, get them away from me!” Lavender squealed, dodging behind Parvati.

            “We must keep going!” Flitwick called out. He and the other two teachers broke into a quick stride, and the other students followed behind. Meanwhile, the one-armed Justin and the legless Euan were stranded with a pile of body parts.

            “Here,” Ron said quickly as he passed. “Hermione, help me, please.”

            “Sure,” she said, Conjuringa gigantic Ziploc bag. “In they go.” Ron dumped the body parts into the bag, and she zipped the seal.

            Justin breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks a load, Ron and Hermione.” He hefted Euan’s torso in his good arm, and the four of them jogged after the rest of the group.

 

~~~~~

 

            “Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, you are brought before the court on this day, Friday the 5th of December, 1997, for violation of the precedence set by the 1803 Wizengamot case _The Parents vs. Dwyrtle Plumm_.”

            In Courtroom 10, the case had just started. A stubby, oily judge named Turpentyn sat on two hidden pillows behind a podium, right at the edge of the sunken central dais that held the defendant’s seat. In this seat sat Dumbledore, bound by magical chains that choked his arms, legs, and neck. He had refused every form of clothing the Aurors had tried to force upon him; as such, he was as naked as he was the night before. And yet, for one so confined and exposed, he looked remarkably comfortable.

            “The witnesses for the prosecution are The Parents, numbering eighty, and headed by Ivana Bolton Chatterley.” The parents sat in the raised rows behind the judge, and each wore a smile that curled in vindication. Ivana’s heart soared to cloud nine at the sound of her name, for it once again reminded her that she bore the glorious responsibility of finally bringing the downfall of Hogwarts’ most despicable headmaster! All that was left now was to manipulate the jury, and that was a cakewalk. Scratch that, this was a cakewalk in comparison to a cakewalk. The twelve members in the jury box happened to all be related to at least one of the mothers, except for two who were eating out of Narcissa Black’s hand anyway.

“The witness for the defense is...” the Judge Turpentyn sneered at one lone person on the other end of the room.

“Is me!” Connie cried out, for her it was indeed.

            “She’s a Muggle, your honor!” Ivana screeched. “Nothing she says counts!”

            “But _I’m_ a Muggle!” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley complained. “Does my voice not count, either?”

            “Don’t be stupid,” Ivana said quickly, realizing her faux pas. “You have a child in Hogwarts. This imposter, however, does not.”

            “If I hadn’t divorced my first husband, I’d have a great-grandchild in the school,” Connie argued.

            “That isn’t sufficient,” the judge said, his lip curling at the ancient old lady. “You cannot take part in this case.”

            “Well, I never!” Connie said indignantly. “The nerve of you cads!” She humphed a little and slouched back in her seat.

            “The witness for the defense is—”Judge Turpentyn was just about to say _nobody_ when the door burst open, and in flooded a crowd of people. They numbered three adults (Hogwarts teachers, no less!) and nearly fifty students, all out of breath but too worked up to be out of energy. “What are you all doing here?” the judge cried indignantly.

            “We’re the witnesses for the defense!” McGonagall said, managing to keep her heavy breathing under control. Snape and Flitwick, both having had extensive dueling experience, maintained their cool, but the students behind them wheezed and clutched their sides.

            “All of you?” the judge said, his brow wrinkling in suspicion.

            “All of us,” she said firmly.

            As this was established, the parents took advantage of the distraction to lean towards the jury box and catch the jurors’ attention.

            “Hey!” Mrs. Bones hissed at her husband. “If Albus Dumbledore is voted innocent, I’m going to tell everyone about what you did last summer!”

            “Same goes to you!” Ivana barked at her sperm donor. “Only I’ll tell about what you did to Oliver Wood at the Puddlemere United game.”

            “And I can easily put you, you, you, you, and you out of work,” Narcissa said, pointing her finger at five of the jurors in turn, all of whom had been Death Eater sympathizers before Voldemort’s downfall. “So you’d better vote guilty and make sure the others do as well.”

            “The witnesses for the defense, then,” said Judge Turpentyn with much reluctance, “are The Students and Teachers of Hogwarts School, headed by Minerva McGonagall.”

            “Hi there, Minnie!” Albus called out. “I knew you’d come to save me.”

            “Order in the court!” the judge snapped, banging his gavel. It broke. He shoved it quickly inside his podium and pulled out a new one, coughing in embarrassment. “Now… _ahem_ … we shall begin with the prosecution.”

            Ivana grinned vindictively and practically ran to the Witness Box, where a tiny old man swore her in. The second he turned around, she launched into her case. “As we all know,” she said, “the 1803 court case _The Parents vs. Dwyrtle Plumm_ stipulatesit is forbidden for a member of the Hogwarts staff to be in the presence of a naked student. However, Dumbledore here, full knowing the accompanying penalty of law, chose to include nudity in the horrid play that was going to open this very night! Incidentally, this play also has gratuitous language, graphic sexual content, and a veritable smorgasbord of perversions. Dumbledore is trying to corrupt our youth!”

            “Objection, Your Honor! The last part is irrelevant!” Professor McGonagall called out as she advanced towards the judge’s podium. Meanwhile, the students slinked around behind her, unsure of what to do. Snape motioned silently for them to sit down on the cold, hard floor and stay still. “The amount of language and sexual content has nothing to do with this case, nor does the corruption of our youth.”

            “Objection noted,” the judge said, tilting his head and looking superciliously down his nose at the Hogwarts representatives. “Does the defendant have anything to say in his defense?

            “We didn’t practice with the nudity,” Euan Abercrombie burst out.

            “Your Honor, this boy has not been sworn in!” Ivana said harshly. “His words mean nothing.”

            “Then swear him in,” McGonagall said swiftly. “In fact, swear us all in!”

            The little old man tottered back into the room and collectively swore in all fifty students and eighty parents, plus the three teachers. Once this was over with, Justin Finch-Fletchley hopped into the witness box and hoisted up Euan’s torso for everyone to see. Euan was trembling; the dangly bits of gore jiggled at the end of his severed thighs, though the force from the Splinching had cauterized the wound so that no blood splattered the witness box.

            “W-we didn’t practice with nudity,” Euan repeated. “When we got to the nude scene, Dumbledore let the actors practice in their underwear. So he didn’t break the law.”

            “But he was planning to!” Ivana yelled back. “This very night he was planning on breaking the law. And don’t say it doesn’t count! If Dumbledore had been planning to _murder_ them tonight, he’d still be charged!”

            “That’s thoroughly ridiculous,” Professor McGonagall said tartly. “Nudity and murder are not the same thing.”

            “They both destroy society!” Ivana countered. “They’re both sinful and evil, and they both have no part in a school play!”

            “Objection, Your Honor!” Professor McGonagall cried, affronted by Ivana’s shocking lack of logic. “Ms. Chatterley here is not concerning herself with the facts of the matter, only with rhetoric and oratory.”

            “Objection noted,” the judge said frostily. “Will the prosecution please continue?”

            “I most certainly will!” Ivana said. “I have proof that Professor Dumbledore was planning on breaking the law!” Grinning so widely her face looked ready to split, she clapped her hands. Loser, who was already hiding behind Ron to avoid looking at his mother, gave a little squeak as a dozen House-elves materialized in the middle of the courtroom.

            “These House-elves will witness the unlawful designs Albus Dumbledore planned to afflict upon his innocent students.”

            “Objection!” Hermione cried, looking positively vengeful. “For the past thousand years, our society has not recognized the House-Elves as intelligent beings, and as such, your court has deemed them unfit as witnesses. Hence, they cannot testify for the prosecution!” She leered victoriously at the Wizarding parents, many of whom looked shocked at Hermione’s statement. For their entire lives they had voted against House-elf rights, and now, as her smile so gloatingly reminded them, it was coming back to kick them in the arse.

            “Objection noted,” Judge Turpentyn said reluctantly, giving Ivana an apologetic shrug. “The House-elves are unfit to testify.”

            Ivana curled her fists into red balls, cursing herself for overlooking that, and for underestimating the depths of depravity to which these students would sink. How dare that bushy-haired twit—that know-it-all—how _dare_ she try arguing with her elders! How dare she try having her way in the courtroom! In fact, how dare _all_ these students show up here to defend a man as evil as Dumbledore! That man was teaching them to think for themselves and make lives that their parents didn’t plan. He was removing the adults’ control and giving it to these pitiful youngsters!

            “However,” the judge added in an effort to be helpful, “If one of the students would testify, that will do just as well.”

            And the solution came to her. “Wonderful idea, judge,” Ivana said, her fury flashing once again to vindication. “In that case, I shall ask that my son take the stand and witness against Albus Dumbledore.” And then, looking directly at Loser, she said, “Clifford, do what I tell you. Walk over to the witness box, enter it, and tell us all that Dumbledore was planning to break the law.”

            “Wh-wh-what?” Loser squeaked, so quietly that nobody heard him. His heartbeat increased, his stomach dropped, and his limbs became uncomfortably warm and shaky. He didn’t want to testify against Albus Dumbledore! He liked the headmaster—he liked the play! If it hadn’t been for his role as the battle hero, he’d never have gotten over his stuttering. He’d made friends with Ron and Luna, and he’d finally found a little self-confidence. He couldn’t betray that by aiding in Dumbledore’s conviction!

            “Get into the witness box _now_ ,” Ivana commanded her son. “Get on your lazy feet, march right over there, and condemn your filthy headmaster.”

            “But I… but I…”

            “Do it!” she barked furiously.

            Loser’s chest sagged as his heart sunk. He wanted nothing more than to walk in the opposite direction of that accursed witness box, but how could he do that? How could he dream of disobeying his mum? He had changed these past two months, true, but some things would never be different. There were some people whom he could never change around, and his mum was one of them. He could never, ever stand up to his mum. And so he dragged himself slowly towards to witness box, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

            It was all a blur; he let it be a blur. He didn’t want to see his classmates as their shoulders sagged in disappointment. He didn’t want to see the professors’ faces fall as he removed their beloved boss from his position. Most of all, he didn’t want to see his mum’s gloating smile that once again reminded him of how completely she owned him. So he turned his face to the stone floor and watched his feet as they advanced step by step towards the witness box. As intensely as he focused on the ground, however, he could not block his periphery vision. He sensed Hermione reaching out to grab a hold of his shoulder until Ron stopped her and whispered, “No, there’s nothing we can do. Now it’s all up to him.”

            His heart broke. It was all up to him—he was alone. Only he could stop this, and everyone was relying on him to do it. And yet they were setting themselves up for disappointed, because he couldn’t do this—he couldn’t stop it. Who could stop his own parent from destroying him? As if in slow motion, he heard his mother’s voice, “Get in the witness box, Clifford. We don’t have all day.”

            He was in the witness box. It was here he was going to betray everyone. He couldn’t look into their faces, he just couldn’t—it would hurt him too badly.

            “Clifford Oliver Chatterley is in the witness box testifying for the prosecution,” said the judge, his voice on the other side of the world.

            “Tell them, Clifford.” That was his mother. “Tell them that Dumbledore planned on breaking the law.” She didn’t care about him, did she? No, she only cared that she was right—she would do anything to prove that, even if it meant destroying her own son. And he was actually going to let her do it.

            He had to look up. He had to see everyone’s disappointment, everyone’s disbelief as he, Loser, betrayed them. Yes, it would hurt… but he deserved it. Ever single damn bit of it.

            And so Loser looked up. He first saw Albus Dumbledore. The headmaster was gazing down at his penis as he clenched his stomach muscles, in-and-out, so that his genitals wiggled against the cold seat. Then he looked up at Loser. There was no disappointment on his face, no worry, but an inexplicable excitement, as if he expected something very gratifying in the near future. He nodded at Loser and flashed him a grin.

            Then there were the students sitting on the ground behind the teachers. The students weren’t shaking their heads or muttering to themselves. No, they were gazing eagerly at Loser, urging him silently onward. Ron in particular stared hard at Loser and gave him a little wave of greeting. Beside him Ginny and Hermione sent Loser a thumbs-up. The teachers, meanwhile, were not putting their heads in their hands; they were too busy glaring at Ivana.

            And then Loser caught sight of Connie, sitting all alone on the other side of the courtroom. Her gaze burned against him, urging him silently not to say something, but to remember… To remember the night when Loser had stood up against her and succeeded. He had had no help from Dumbledore, or Ron, or Luna. That had been 100% Loser, or rather, 100% Clifford.

            That was who he had to be, wasn’t it? 100% Clifford. His mum had made him Loser. His first five-and-a-half years at Hogwarts had confirmed it. And now it must be undone. Dumbledore had started the process. Ron helped it along. But that Weasley boy was right: They could only do so much. Now it was Clifford’s turn to do the rest.

            “Clifford Oliver Chatterley, you will witness against Albus Dumbledore right now!”

 

“J-just shut the fuck up with this c-c-cunting shit!

Just shove it all against your crusty clit!”

 

            Clifford gasped and put a hand to his mouth. He had just said that! He had just talked back to his mum, complete with exclamation points and four expletives!

            His mum recoiled sharply, her face flashing from white to red to grey, as if she couldn’t decide between horror, anger, or pure shock. “Clifford…!” she whispered, her eyes morbidly obese with condescension. “You disappoint me! You have betrayed me. I knew you would—you are weak, you would be nothing without me, and now—”

            “Shut up, mum!” Clifford shouted at her, his voice loud yet not uncontrollable. “ _You_ have betrayed me! Look what you tried to make me be! A boy who can’t think for himself? A boy who ignores what he knows to be right, just because someone tells him to? A boy that can’t even speak without stuttering, because he’s too afraid of the world?”

            He was having a massive epiphany, right there in the court room, and it all came pouring out, too quickly for him to even think of stopping it. As if he wanted to! “You don’t want to raise a good son—you only want to prove that you’re in control. You deprived me of a father figure simply because you wanted everyone to know that you could make it on your own. You don’t love me—and I don’t say that because I’m angry at you. I say it because I have logically thought it through, and I’ve found that it’s true! You have never loved me; you have never loved _anyone_. You’re not even over the hill and already you’re a bitter old woman, too blinded in your own narcissism to see that everyone else around you has ideas. All you can do is _take_ and _take_ and _take_ , simply because you think you have a right to do whatever the hell you want.”

            Clifford stepped outside the witness box and brushed away the remnant of a tear. “I will not testify against Albus Dumbledore, Mum. Yell at me all you want. Now I realize: I should have never listened to you. Nothing you say will have effect on me… ever again. I love Albus Dumbledore—he’s been far more of a parent to me these past two months than you’ve been in your entire life!”

            And the young man walked right over to Albus Dumbledore and gave him a hug. The parents all gasped in shock. Ivana herself was too horrified to speak. She could only gape at Loser, and for once in her life she had nothing to yell at him.

            “He’s naked, though!” Mrs. Bones cried. “You’re hugging a naked man!”

            “Oh, am I?” Clifford said. “I didn’t notice. It doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with him. Someone undo these chains so he can hug me back!”

            “My dear boy,” Albus Dumbledore said, blinking away tears. “No, my dear young _man_ : If Olivier saw you today, he’d take his hat off to you. You have truly done me proud.”

            Connie stood up and started clapping. For a second she was alone, but then Ron joined her, followed closely by Hermione and Ginny. Soon all the students and teachers were applauding Clifford. He was so exhilarated that he wouldn’t be surprised if he was literally glowing. Nothing in his life had ever felt this good before; nothing could match his first taste of freedom: pure, unadulterated, and deserved freedom. Freedom from that devil who called herself his mum, freedom from his ridiculous stutter, and freedom from that despicable name: _Loser_. He wasn’t a Loser any longer.

            As the claps died down, Clifford hollered joyfully, “So it seems I’ve thrown away my old family—if I could even call it that! What now?”

            “Join mine!” Ron yelled happily. “You turn seventeen this summer, right?”

            “This winter, actually,” Clifford replied.

            “Sextastic,” Ron hooted. “Yes, my mum will love you.”

            “And we’ll be your family, too!” Euan said, too eager to keep his voice below the level of a scream. “Every one of us!”

            “ORDER! ORDER IN THE COURT!” Judge Turpentyn banged his gavel against the podium. “ORDER IN THE COURT!” He wasn’t an effective judge; it took him another dozen repeats of this phrase until everyone finally calmed down. “The fact still remains that Albus Dumbledore was planning on breaking the law tonight.”

            “Objection!” Ron yelled. “You can’t prove that.”

            “Objection overruled,” the judge said testily. “If you know anything about his plans, then you must testify— _all_ of you, or you will be breaking the law.”

            “We don’t have to tell you _jack shit!_ ” Dean Thomas yelled, prompting every student in the courtroom to roar in consent.

            “ORDER! ORDER! ORDER!” Judge Turpentyn broke his gavel again and had to pull out a third one. “OR-DER! OR-DER!” When order was restored once again (with the help of Snape, Flitwick, and McGonagall), he glared at the students and said, “Are any of you married to Albus Dumbledore? I thought not. Only spouses are excused from testifying against a defendant. Now get back into the witness box, Clifford Oliver Chatterley.”

            “No,” Clifford said mutinously, planting his feet firmly on the ground.

            “ _Now_ ,” Turpentyn growled.

            “Arrest me,” Clifford shot back. “Arrest all of us. We aren’t talking.”

            This started another uproar, in which the parents yelled at the students, the students at the parents, and everyone at the judge. Albus Dumbledore sat in the middle of it all and grinned at Snape, who rolled his eyes. McGonagall, meanwhile, retreated towards the door, taking hold of Hermione and Ron along the way.

            “What is it, professor?” Hermione asked over the tumult.

            “You two are the brightest students in here,” McGonagall said. “Now tell me: How are we going to get out of this mess?”

            “We can’t do it alone,” Hermione said, thinking intensely. “We need someone else, someone with a _lot_ of clout.”

            “Who else do we have?” McGonagall said, clenching her fingers in a miniature panic. “The whole cast and crew is already here.”

            “No, they aren’t,” Ron said. “Harry Potter’s not.”

            “Harry Potter, that’s it!” Hermione said excitedly. “Yes, Ron, of course! He’s just the person to take care of this.”

            “But didn’t he and Dumbledore argue yesterday afternoon?” Professor McGonagall asked worriedly. “Are you sure he’ll do the right thing?”

            “Let me worry about that,” Ron said. “I’ll head back to the school. You get everyone calm and start stalling.”

            “I’ll help,” Luna said, having wandered over to see what was going on. “Stall, that is.”

            “Cool,” Ron said. “Then I’m off.”

 

~~~~~

 

            Harry trudged up the Astronomy Tower stairway, his shoes clicking quietly on the stone steps. Yesterday’s raging anger had given way to a stomach-dropping restlessness. He had been so mad at Dumbledore that he couldn’t get to sleep until 3:00. But now that he was awake again, he felt all panicky and agitated. What exactly was he going to do, now that he’d thrown his temper tantrum? Dumbledore’s magically binding spell would force him to act in the play, and everyone would tread around him, fearful that he’d blow up again. They used to do it all the time back in his fifth year, even the ones who had believed him when he was ridiculed for telling the truth. He hated it when history repeated itself.

            _Get a grip, Harry_ , he told himself sternly. _I shouldn’t care what they think! What matters is that Dumbledore has trampled on my rights for the umpteen-millionth time, and I’m mad about it. I have a damn good reason to be mad; I have a damn good reason to curse him into the next century! And people should just keep their ideas to themselves and let me get on with it._

            This was a lot easier said than done. Whatever he told himself, it still bothered Harry that everyone had witnessed yesterday’s blow-up. He knew he had startled them enough that they were falling back on formerly conceived notions, and it only made him more upset. They weren’t doing it to spite him—in fact, they couldn’t help it—but it still made him clench his fists and grind his teeth just thinking about it.

            As Harry neared the top of the stairs, he suddenly heard something… or someone, rather. It was a student, a boy, and he was crying. Harry heard a sniffle and a rustle of a cloak as the person shifted positions—from the sound of it, he was hiding behind the statue of Gregoras the Dying just a few feet away.

            _Someone else is skipping class, too?_ Harry thought, intrigued. _Interesting—I wonder what’s going on? Should I—no, I shouldn’t. I don’t want to deal with someone who’s crying all over—_

            “Harry, is that you?” the person sniffled.

            _Ah, fuck_. Harry waited a moment and wondered whether he should beat a retreat, but then he realized the person already knew he was here. “Uh… yeah? Is that you, Neville?”

            “Yes,” Neville said. He stood up and stepped out from behind the statue, wiping a spot of wetness from his cheek.

            “Er…” Harry said, not knowing what to say to his apparently grief-stricken dorm mate. “Skipping class, too?”

            “I wouldn’t’ve been able to concentrate,” Neville sighed. “I just found out… no, never mind.”

            Harry’s insatiable curiosity was instantly piqued. “What? What were you going to say?”

            “Nothing,” Neville said lamely. “It’s stupid. Just some… gossip or something from Lavender that upset me.”

            “Oh,” Harry said, wondering if he should add _I’m sorry_. He waited too long, though, and realized he couldn’t say it without sounding stupid. So he pressed for more information. “What’d she tell you?”

            “Oh, it was about… uh…” A blush ripened on Neville’s cheeks as he tried to avoid saying something. “It was just about someone who… someone did something, see… and it upset me. But Lavender didn’t know that it—uh… It’s sort of private…” His voice trailed off to a whisper.

            “Oh!” Harry said, instantly contrite. “Oh, okay. Sorry for, like, you know, prodding.”

            “It’s okay,” Neville sighed. “How ‘bout you? Are you still mad at Dumbledore?”

            “Yeah,” Harry mumbled, wishing that he could express just how upset he was without scaring his dorm mate. “Yeah, I am.”

            “Are you still going to… you know, act? In the play?” Neville said, his voice containing a note of barely suppressed hope.

            “There’s that damn fucking spell the old coot put on the parchment,” Harry sighed, kicking bitterly at the stone floor. “What kind of miracle is getting me out of that?”

            No sooner than he had spoken Ron Weasley bounded into view, yelling, “HARRY! HARRY! Oh good, there you are.”

            “What’s the matter?” Harry said a little stiffly, hoping to heaven that Ron wasn’t about to beg him to patch things up with Dumbledore before tonight’s performance.

            “Haven’t you heard? Dumbledore’s been arrested!” Ron cried dramatically, as if it was one of century’s greatest tragedies.

            For a few moments Harry and Neville goggled disbelievingly at Ron. Neville let out a tiny gasp and tripped against the pedestal of Gregoras the Dying. Harry, however, took a deep breath, threw his arms into the air, and shouted, “YES! OH DEAR LORD, THANK YOU! Really, Ron? That’s the best news I’ve heard all week! You mean Dumbledore’s actually _arrested?_ As in the-play-is-canceled arrested?”

            “No, it’s not canceled yet!” Ron said quickly. “Dumbledore’s trial is going on right now. Hermione and Luna are stalling for time, and I came back here to take you to the Ministry so that you can get Dumbledore off the hook.”

            Harry’s lip pursed itself against his jawbone. He rubbed his ears vigorously then said with a pained twist in his eyebrow, “Repeat that, please? I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

            “You need to get Dumbledore off the hook so that we can put on the play!”

            “No!” Harry said even before Ron was done talking. “No. No way! What the hell makes you think I want Dumbledore off the hook? Him getting arrested means me never having to show my dick to a thousand people. If he’s pronounced guilty, it’ll be the best thing that’s ever happened to me!”

 

~~~~~

 

            “ORDER! ORDER IN THE COURT!” When everyone finally became quiet, Judge Turpentyn turned to glare at the students, his frumpy face red with frustration. “One of you must testify,” he huffed. “I _will_ call in the Aurors, and you’ll be charged for contempt of court. It won’t look good on your permanent records.”

            The students all stared mutinously at the judge, their silence announcing their refusal to cooperate. He muttered angrily and only halfway managed to stop himself from slamming his fist against his podium. What was it about the teenage years that made school kids so ridiculously stubborn? They weren’t of age: They knew far less than any of the adults in this room, and it was arrogant for them to think otherwise! The parents glared along with him. Ivana looked particularly murderous, now that she’d been humiliated in front of the entire court. She whispered something to the parents closest to her, and they nodded grimly.

            But wait, one of the students was raising her hand! She was going to talk! “Your Honor,” said Hermione. “We have a witness here to prove that Dumbledore _didn’t_ break the law.”

            “Oh?” the judge said coldly, chastising himself for trusting a false hope. “And which one of you can do that?”

            “It’s not a student,” said Luna. “He’s a friend of mine.”

            “Is it Flitwick or Snape, then?” the judge asked, frowning at her. He didn’t see any other males here that weren’t students.

            “Oh no,” Luna said. “Professor Flitwick is friendly, but he’s merely a teacher. And I don’t really like Professor Snape. No offense,” she added easily, staring at the Potions professor with her wide eyes. None was taken, apparently; the curl in his lip suggested he was more proud than upset over Luna’s libel.

            “Then who is it?”

             “The Heebripples don’t give each other names,” Luna said mildly. “Their auras individualize them enough as it is.”

            “What?” Judge Turpentyn said, scratching his bald spot. “Young girl, you are making no sense!”

            “But I am,” Luna said earnestly. “He’s in the witness box right now, waiting for us to be quiet.”

            “She’s making this up!” Ivana cried out, her voice ragged with fury. “Throw her out of court!”

            “Objection!” McGonagall retorted. “The prosecution doesn’t have the right to ask the judge to throw someone out of court!”

            “Objection noted,” the judge said irritably. “But this girl has no right to make a mockery of our courtroom with her silly jokes.”

            “It’s no joke, Your Honor,” Luna promised him. “He’s been here the whole time, and he was sworn in with the rest of us.”

            “But she’s talking about some make-believe animal!” Mrs. Abbot yelled. “Anyway, animals aren’t allowed as witnesses.”

            “Actually,” Hermione countered, “back in 1556, in the case of _Bela vs. The Town of Hogsmeade_ , the court swore in a vampire before they realized that non-human creatures couldn’t testify, but since he was already sworn in, he was allowed to testify. This precedence has not yet been struck down.”

            “But you said the House-elves couldn’t testify!” Mrs. Abbot argued petulantly. “How now can this… Heeppyal thing do this? What am I even talking about? It isn’t even real!”

            “Yes, he is,” Hermione said. “I can see him. As for your question: I stopped the House-elves from testifying _before_ they were sworn in. However, the Heebripple was sworn in collectively with the rest of us, so now he must be allowed to testify.”

            “But Mrs. Abbot is right: we can’t see him!” Judge Turpentyn said.

            “I can see him,” Luna said. “And so can Hermione.”

            “I can see him, too,” Justin Finch-Fletchely said, catching on quickly.

            “Me, too!” said Lavender.

            “And me,” Orla Quirke said.

            “And me!” “And me!” “Me, too!” And so on and so forth.

            “I can see him, too,” McGonagall said defiantly.

            “As can I,” Snape said, his years of Occlumency creating the most convincing expression in the courtroom.

            “With all due respect, Your Honor, there might be something wrong with your vision,” Flitwick squeaked, “because the rest of us can see him clear as day. Would you like me to perform an Ocular Corrective Charm?”

            “No thank you, Professor!” the judge replied sternly. “I don’t believe you can see him! None of the parents can.”

            “Actually, _I_ can,” Xenophilius Lovegood argued from his position amongst the parents. “And as a Hogwarts governor, I suggest that we let the Heebripple testify, whether or not you can see him. Let the jury decide if they are or are not moved by the defense.”

            Judge Turpentyn clenched his fists and said, “Look, this is really—”

            “ _SSSSHH!”_ Luna hissed at him. “He’s trying to speak!”

            For a full two minutes the room was silent. The students sat quietly on the floor for the most part and resisted fidgeting. The teachers stood in front of them with serious expressions, all of them politely observing the empty witness box. The parents exchanged noiseless shoulder shrugs and glares. The judge massaged his temple, and the jury twiddled their thumbs.

            Then Luna said, “The Heebripple raises an excellent point. Based on that evidence, we really have no grounds on which to convict Dumbledore.”

            “This is ridiculous!” the judge burst out. “There’s nobody in the witness box! Heebripples don’t even exist!”

            Luna shook her head sadly and gazed up at the judge. “I feel sorry for the man who can’t see the Heebripple,” she said simply. Then she turned back to the witness box and said, “Could you please reiterate that last point for the jury again? We want them to understand every aspect of your argument.”

            “Oh!” Judge Turpentyn cried indignantly, his palms flat against the podium. “I get it now… I get it! I am the Emperor, and the Heebripple is the New Clothes.”

            “Oh no, Your Honor,” Luna said, wide-eyed. “I would never want to see you naked.”

 

~~~~~

 

            “Listen, Harry, you’ve _got_ to help us!” Ron begged his best friend. “Apparently I have failed to make this clear already, but _Dumbledore’s about to be convicted and sentenced_. And it’s all because the parents pitched a hissy fit over the play.”

            “Oh, good,” Harry said, “because I pitched a ‘hissy fit,’ too, and nobody listened to me. Glad to see somebody’s succeeded.”

            “No, Harry, you don’t understand,” Ron argued. “This isn’t about appearing nude onstage. It’s about censorship. The parents are trying to ban the play by getting rid of the director!”

            “Let them ban the play, then,” Harry said harshly, forcing himself not to yell. “I’d love them to ban it.”

            “But Harry,” Neville inserted himself into the conversation, “if we let them ban one thing, they’ll start banning other things. Today it’s the play; tomorrow it’ll be one of the clubs. The next day they’ll force Flitwick or McGonagall to change their curriculums because they don’t like a certain part. Then, before you know it, our parents will be controlling every single aspect of our lives!”

            “That sounds terrible,” Harry said ironically. “Too bad I’ll never know what it’s like to have controlling parents, seeing as mine have been dead for sixteen y—”

            “Harry!” Ron interrupted, shutting his eyes in an attempt to remain calm. “You’re doing it again!”

            “Doing what?”

            “Pulling the orphan card! Now stop thinking about yourself for once and start—”

            “Oh, that’s rich!” Harry yelled, his temper getting the better of him. “You telling me to stop thinking about myself! Excuse me, but the first sixteen years of my life were not my own! I lived with my abusive relatives my whole childhood, then came to Hogwarts and found out I had a murderous dark lord to deal with. I think I deserve a little bit of selfish time now!”

            “Okay, first the orphan card, now the Voldemort card,” Ron sighed. “Just… _stop_. Just shut up and think!”

            “Hey, I—”

            “Shut up,” Ron interrupted, holding a finger in the air.

            “Look, you can’t—”

            “Don’t want to hear it!” Ron said firmly. Harry opened his mouth again, but his best friend beat him to the punch. “I’m not listening! Not until you put at least fifteen seconds of thought into each sentence.”

            Harry was so mad he couldn’t think, so he glared at Ron for a full minute straight. Why was it always him who had to step in and save the day, especially when the end result involved something he really didn’t enjoy? If it weren’t for his nobility streak, the whole school would’ve been rid of Crabbe’s stupidity during the final battle. And now he was facing another conflict of morals, in which the right choice would end in him appearing naked in front of a thousand people.

            Yes, freeing Dumbledore would be the right thing: Harry could not deny that. Dumbledore had hurt him, yes; Dumbledore’s opinion of himself was sometimes too inflated, yes; but overall Dumbledore was a good man who wanted the students to work hard and think for themselves. The parents were like a collective Umbridge: They wanted to have the kids under their little fingers, right where they could keep an eye on them. It wasn’t that they were doing it on purpose ( _Well, not_ all _of them_ , Harry thought, reminding himself of Clifford’s despicable mother)—it was that they hadn’t yet accepted that their children were growing up and developing their own faculties of critical thought. Those parents had been led astray—by Mrs. Loser and their own illusions of parenthood. And those were some illusions that desperately needed shattering.

            “Look,” Harry groaned. “Why me? Why does it always have to be me who does this?”

            “I don’t know,” Ron said. “I seriously don’t. But you know what Hagrid said back in our Fourth Year: What happens will happen, and we have to meet it when it does.”

            “He did say that, didn’t he?” Harry said, chuckling a little. “I totally forgot about that—until you reminded me, that is.”

            “Yup,” Ron said, smiling. “So what’s it going to be?”

            “I don’t want to do a nude scene,” Harry said, deadly serious. “I really, really don’t.”

            Ron and Neville looked at each other; the redhead motioned him to be quiet, knowing that anything they said to minimize Harry’s agony would only set him off again.

            “But neither do I want to parents to turn into a little army of pro-censorship Umbridges,” Harry said.

            Neville leaned forward and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s all twisted,” he whispered, his eyes shining earnestly. “Dumbledore is twisted. The parents are twisted. Heck, we _all_ are twisted. This is no easy choice, I realize.”

            “Is that supposed to make me feel any better?” Harry asked. “That the world is twisted is obvious, but what am I supposed to do about it? Speak to me, Ron: You’re the sensitive, non-macho man now.”

            “Pretend,” Ron said intently, “that you are going to the polls.”

            “The polls?”

            “To vote, you know. You’re going to the polls, and you have to vote between… oh, I don’t know… you have to vote between a Giant Douche and a Turd Sandwich. If you choose one, you have to eat shit; if you choose the other, you get doused in vagina water. Both options fellate gonads—but you _have_ to choose.”

            “Cock-fucking-damn it!” Harry snarled. “Can’t I just sit this one out?”

            “No, Harry,” Ron said. “I’m sorry, but you can’t. This all rests on you now.”

            “Oh, Ron,” Harry said slowly and tragically, “I’m going over every swearword I know. But somehow the phrase _‘bloody Goddamned motherfucking cock-shit dick-rape pussy-buggering frotting pricking cooze-arse’_ seems a woefully inadequate representation of my feelings.”

            “I’m sorry,” Ron whispered softly, drawing his friend into a hug. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

            “I don’t want to do a nude scene!” Harry wailed. “It’ll be too embarrassing.”

            “Ssh, Harry,” Ron said. “You have a good-looking penis. People won’t be laughing at you. Drooling maybe—haha, just kidding, sort of.”

            “Ron’s right,” Neville said gently. “You _do_ have a good penis.”

            “But what if I get an erection onstage?” Harry said, his vocal range soaring in panic. “ _Everyone_ is going to notice, and the next day there’ll be pictures of it on the black market!”

            “Actually, they’ll probably appear legally in _Playwitch_ ,” Neville said.

            “Augh!”

            “But it’s okay,” the boy continued quickly. “They’d be putting you in a spread anyway, even if you were as flaccid as a bowl of jelly. Like Ron said, people won’t be laughing at you, even if you have a hard-on the size of the Big Ben.”

            “But my erection turns to the left!” Harry wailed. “They’ll give me a stupid nickname, like Bendy-Cock or the Leaning Tower of Pisa!”

            “So?” Neville said mildly. “They’d call _me_ the Deadly Fish Hook. But Parvati once said that she prefers hard-ons with curves and bends in them, because they give her more pleasure or something like that.”

            “Wow,” Harry whimpered. “I didn’t need to know that—and it doesn’t make me feel any better! Let’s just head over to the Ministry and get this over with.”

            “Oh! So you’re going?” Ron said happily.

            “Yes,” Harry sighed. “I have to do what I have to do. I’ll hate every minute of it. I’ll wish I hadn’t done it. But such is my lot in life.”

            “Coolness,” Ron said.

 

~~~~~

 

            “Throw her out, Your Honor!” Ivana raged at the judge. “This girl should be charged with contempt of court, the way she’s carrying on about that make-believe animal of hers!”

            “It’s not make-believe, Ivana,” Xenophilius replied in a sing-song voice.

            “SHUT UP, MR. LOVEGOOD!” she bawled back. “Your Honor, these kids should all be sent to jail for the way they’re acting!”

            “It’s you who should be sent to jail, you old sow!” Dean Thomas yelled back. “You parents should be ashamed to have your title associated with such a bitch!”

            “See what Dumbledore’s done to these kids!” Ivana railed at the other parents. “SEE WHAT HE’S DONE?! They swear now, they disrespect their parents! None of them acted like this before they went to Hogwarts—to let this slide wouldn’t be so much ridiculous as downright sinful! This must end today. Your Honor, arrest them all!”

            “ORDER! ORDER!” Judge Turpentyn yelled.

            “I DON’T CARE ABOUT ORDER!” Ivana raged. “I CARE ABOUT PUTTING THESE DISGRACEFUL WRETCHES IN THEIR PLACE!”

            “Objection, Your Honor!” McGonagall cried.

            “I have an objection to _you_ , you horrid teacher!” Ivana yelled. “I hated every single Transfiguration class I ever took, and I wished every single day that you’d just DIE, right there in the front of the classroom! Foul woman!”

            “Objection, Your Honor,” Snape said lazily.

            “Objection, Your Honor!” Flitwick joined in with a squeak even higher than his normal tone of voice.

            “ORDER!” “Objection, Your Honor!” “Objection!” “ORDER!” “OBJECTION!” Etceteras and etceteras. It was noisy and unproductive—a bad combination at the worst of times.

            Then the door flew open, and three people marched into the room: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom. Harry goggled at the gabbling crowd and shook his head impatiently. Squinching his eyes and glaring at the floor, he lifted his wand into the air and sent a dozen purple firecrackers out the tip. In quick succession they flashed inside the courtroom, branding shadows on the walls in a strobe-like sequence. Everyone fell quiet and turned to see what newcomer had caused this commotion.

            “It’s Harry Potter!” Mrs. Bones whispered, bouncing on her feet as if on a spring. “I love him!”

            “Me, too,” Mrs. Abbot replied. She fanned herself as her chest inflated with excitement.

            “Hi, Harry Potter!” Mrs. Creevey squealed, a little overexcited. “My son Colin’s told me all about you!”

            “Order in the court,” Harry said, waving his hand so lazily that it was more of a flop. His simple sentence did more than the judge could have done with hours of yelling. Immediately everyone fell silent and stared at him, waiting for words—any words!—to fall from his healthy lips.

            “Hey there, Dumbledore,” Harry said raising his eyebrows at the sight of his chained headmaster. “You’re naked.”

            “I am, my dear boy,” Dumbledore replied. “I figured I’d show a little solidarity for a certain person I know who’s also dreading a similar experience.”

            Harry eyed the manacles that encircled his headmaster’s body and nodded weakly. “ ‘Dreading’ is right… but don’t go pulling that one on me. I’ll bet you’re enjoying this!”

            “Rather,” Dumbledore said. “It feels a little… how shall I put it?... BDSM, I suppose.”

            “Okay, you’re definitely enjoying this,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. But he was secretly impressed with his headmaster: Apparently Dumbledore wasn’t just trying to exploit Harry for a greater box office revenue. Albus Dumbledore saw no reason to be ashamed of his nakedness, and he simply wasn’t able to understand why others were, especially someone built as healthily as Harry. Dumbledore should have realized that not everyone was as comfortable with their bodies as he was, especially not Harry Potter. And the headmaster definitely shouldn’t have gone to the Dursleys over this; that was just downright cruel. And yet the headmaster was just like any other director that had to force his actors into doing things they didn’t want to do in order to translate his singular vision to the stage. The crowning gem, however, was Dumbledore’ courtroom nakedness. Dumbledore was many things, but at least he wasn’t hypocritical—he made as little a deal about his own nudity as he thought Harry should about Act IV, Scene iii.

            But now wasn’t the time to dwell on Dumbledore’s state of undress. No, he needed to speak to the parents. So, turning towards the prosecution, he said, “Parents, what you’re doing is wrong. You’re trying to control your children when what you really need to do is let them use their own brains. I know you think you’re acting for the good of the kids, but you’re not. So just stop it and let this whole thing slide.”

            There was complete silence. The parents stared uneasily at Harry, not knowing what to think. Under their heavy gazes, Harry felt like God: he had a crowd of illogical people both worshipping him and questioning him at the same time. The parents exchanged glances, then looked back at Harry, who stared piercingly in return.

            “DON’T LISTEN TO HIM!” Ivana shrieked into the silence. “He’s one of them, he’s trying to lead you astray!”

            “But he’s Harry Potter,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley said uneasily. “He’s famous.”

            “And he saved the entire Wizarding World,” Mrs. Bones added.

            “That only makes him more unstable!” Ivana yelled. “The media worships him, so he has a skewed idea of his own importance. And he’s famous for _killing_ a man! Is that the example you want our kids to follow?”

            “Objection!” Ron and Hermione cried at the same time. The judge didn’t even bother to reply.

            “Objection overruled,” Harry said calmly, wanting to eliminate another courtroom brawl before it had the chance to take root. “I’m just asking you guys to use your common sense. Do you really want your kids to become miniature versions of you? Don’t you want them to have their own lives, to make their own discoveries?”

            “He’s lying!” Ivana yelled. “He’s a stupid seventeen-year-old! He doesn’t know anything! Did you hear that, Potter? YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!”

            Harry just raised his eyebrows and resisted teaching the lady just how many variations of the word “cunt” he knew.

            “Well, it’s true that you _did_ kill people,” Mrs. Bones said reluctantly.

            “Yeah,” Mrs. Abbot said, looking uneasily at Ivana. “We appreciate what you did for us and all. We love you to death, we really do! But you _are_ just a kid, and you might not be _entirely_ stable. Not that that’s a bad thing, though!” she added quickly, trying to make her judgment sound less tactless than it was. “It’s really, really great what you did. Just… forgive us if we don’t take your advice on parenting.”

            “You’ re absolutely right,” Ivana said briskly, finally beginning to calm down now that the parents were back on her side. “Potter should know nothing about parents… nothing at all! You see, he doesn’t even have parents. All he’s had is abusive relatives. You’ll forgive us, then, Potter, if we don’t listen to a single word you say!”

            Harry drew in a breath that went on forever. Then he let it out with a whoosh. “Fuck it,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “Dumbledore, remove the spell.”

            “What, my dear boy?” the headmaster said, looking up from his testicles.

            “Remove the spell,” Harry repeated, poker-faced. “The one you put on the parchment.”

            “Why?” Dumbledore asked. He sounded mildly curious, but Harry knew the man was really being defensive.

            “Because I need you to,” Harry said firmly.

            “I don’t have my wand on me, though,” Dumbledore said lamely.

            Harry rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Headmaster. You owe me.”

            Dumbledore sighed and smiled a smile that was much too tiny to be fully at ease. “Okay, then, my boy. It’s done.”

            Harry waited. Nothing happened.

            “Well?” he said impatiently. “Are you going to remove it or not?”

            “I already have,” Dumbledore said. “Try saying something about the play… something that you weren’t allowed to say before.”

            “I’m way ahead of you,” Harry said. He turned back to the parents and held his arms open. “So… you want this play canceled because it is corrupting our youth, and you’re mad at Dumbledore for teaching us to think for ourselves.”

            “Darn right we are!” Mrs. Abbot said.

            “Fair enough,” Harry said, causing the other students to shoot each other worried glances. It was no secret that Harry didn’t want to do his nude scene—after all, he had carried on a shouting match in the Great Hall with Albus Dumbledore himself less than twenty-four hours ago. Would that be enough for him to change his mind and leave the headmaster in the merciless hands of their parents?

            “Fair enough, I say,” he continued, composing himself with all the willpower he could muster. “But… If you cancel the play, you won’t get to see me naked.”

            The silence was everlasting. Dumbledore seemed to lose all voluntary muscle control: His jaw flapped open, his bare chest deflated, and his testicles relaxed. The parents gaped at Harry, their gazes running all up and down his youthful body as their minds did somersaults to make sense of this new knowledge. Ivana’s eyes bugged out of her head in sheer disgust. Air leaked silently from the students’ open mouths as they realized that their fears were unfounded. Even Ron and Hermione raised their eyebrows at one another. Connie’s face was scrawled with pleasant surprise, but she had enough presence of mind to extend her arms towards Harry in wordless gratitude.

            Mrs. Abbot was the first one to speak. She shot to her feet, dodged around the podium, and stalked over to the witness box. Once inside, she took a militant stance and cried, “This is ridiculous!” She took a heavy breath before continuing, her arms akimbo. “How come nobody ever told us before that Harry Potter was the one that was going naked?”

            “Yeah!” Mrs. Bones said, her indignation just as evident. “I would have never tried to stop the play if I had known.”

            “How could you do this to us, Ivana?” Mrs. Patil cried. “We followed you so faithfully, and so _blindly_! Now you nearly lost us our only chance to see Harry Potter naked.”

            “I’ve worshipped him for sixteen years now,” said Mrs. MacMillan. “The idea that I almost lost the chance to see my idol naked, just as soon as he’s become legal, is almost too much for me to bear!”

            Ivana gaped, horrified, as every single parent responded in a similar fashion. “Listen, you can’t do this!” she cried frantically. “Y-you can’t!”

            “Really, Ivana,” Narcissa said severely, “I thought you did your research. Didn’t you know that Harry Potter was in the nude scene? I must confess I’m very disappointed in you.”

            “B-but it’s _nudity_!” she wailed. “I-i-it’s _evil_!”

            “But it’s Harry Potter,” Mrs. Bones said severely. “And Harry Potter trumps evil. He defeated You-Know-Who, for Heaven’s sake! You can’t get any more evil-trumping than that.”

            The students gaped in unanimous disbelief as their mothers changed their minds faster than a Ministry politician changes loyalties. More than one child put his head in his hands or squinched his eyes shut in embarrassment. Susan leaned over to Justin and muttered, “I’m tempted to say that I have no relation to the woman up there who calls herself Mrs. Bones, but then I see that your mother is acting exactly the same.”

            “Tell me about it,” Justin whispered his disbelief.

            “I’m glad my mum isn’t one of them,” Hermione said, relieved.

            “Nor mine,” Ron added.

            Meanwhile, Narcissa Black, Mrs. Abbot, and Mrs. Bones held a quick conference amidst all the commotion, and half-a-minute later they all marched up to the judge’s podium. Narcissa said, just loudly enough to rise above the clamor, “By a majority vote, the prosecution would like to drop this case.”

            “And we also want the Ministry to repeal the precedence set by _The Parents vs. Dwyrtle Plumm_ ,” Mrs. Abbot added.

            “And,” Mrs. Bones turned to Professor Dumbledore and contributed her own two cents, “We want to buy tickets.”

            “They’ll be sold at the door, 50 galleons a seat,” Dumbledore replied. “Invite your family and friends!”

            “We will,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley promised. “Oh, we will!”

            Then the mothers started heading out of the courtroom, gushing like fangirls (which, in fact, they were). A few of them hailed their kids on the way out, but the children were too embarrassed to respond. Judge Turpentyn shrugged helplessly and banged his gavel, muttering, “Case dismissed.” The gavel broke yet again.

            The chains on Dumbledore’s chair undid themselves and snaked into the floor, allowing him to stand up. He did this with a lot of stretching and flexing. The students cheered, too happy to care that seeing an old person naked was gross.

            “We won!” Euan shouted.

            “We really did!” Justin rejoiced, swinging the Third-Year around by the arms.

            “And now we’re going to perform the best play ever!” Clifford shouted, throwing his arms around Ron and Ginny’s shoulders. The whole cast and crew cheered, automatically confirming the pronouncement.

            Dumbledore, meanwhile, pranced over in Harry’s direction. “I must compliment you, my dear boy!” he said joyously. “You have saved the play, and you’ve set the school free from the tyranny of the PTA.”

            Harry rubbed his eyebrows and let out a nervous laugh. “Oh Dumbledore, I’m… I just… the way I did it, though!”

            “What?” Dumbledore asked. “You did a fine job. You learned a lot about how to sway an adult over to your side of things.”

            “Yes, I did,” Harry said. “Mainly this: Never use logic.”

            “Yes indeed, my dear boy,” Dumbledore. “Logic is for someone like you or me or Hermione Granger. For other people… not so much.”

            “Yeah,” Harry said with a sigh. “What craziness. Now put on some clothes, Headmaster, you’re really squicking me out here.”

            Dumbledore sighed and waved his hand. “If you insist.” With a slight _poof_ , a set of flamboyant purple dress robes appeared on his body. He grinned and wriggled his feet happily inside a pair of bedroom slippers. “There, that’s better,” he said.

            “Definitely,” Harry said. “You look a lot more presentable when you’re, well, covered up.”

            “It’s a shame that such is the case,” Dumbledore lamented. “ _But…_ do you want to know a little secret?”

            Harry was tempted to say no, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Sure.”

            The headmaster leaned close to his ear and whispered, “ _I didn’t Conjure any undergarments_.”

 

~~~~

 

            McGonagall was over the moon with glee. Now that the play was back on, she’d get to see Harry Potter naked after all. For a while there she was afraid that the chance would slip away and never return.

            But no, Harry himself had set things right. And now the last of the students were leaving the courtroom so they could all go back to the school and rehearse. _Classes should be canceled for the remainder of the day, I think_ , she decided generously. _And I’d better scrounge around for 50 galleons. No, 100 galleons. I want to see Harry naked two nights in a row._

            But before she took the tail of the line back to school, there was one thing left to do. She turned around to face the only person left in the courtroom: Ms. Ivana Bolton Chatterley.

            The woman was in shock. For the first time in her life someone had stood up to her, and that person had been her very son. He was the one person she was sure she could control, and it turned out she couldn’t. What’s more, she had lost the ability to get people to listen to her. The parents had turned their backs on her in a heartbeat, proving once and for all that she inspired no trust or loyalty. She was, in a nutshell, a worthless woman.

            _And that’s exactly what you deserve to be_ , McGonagall thought fiercely. _That Clifford managed to overcome your tyranny is proof there’s a God, and since He exists, you most definitely are against Him. Which means you’re not getting within a thousand miles of the pearly gates. And to add insult to injury, I’ll ask Madam Pomfrey never to give you another tampon again._

            But she didn’t say any of this to Ivana. The bitch wasn’t worth that much time. Professor McGonagall had only one sentence to spare, and she didn’t stay around for any longer than she took to say it.

            While she said it, however, she relished it. McGonagall leaned slowly over the judge’s podium and leered at Ivana. Then she whispered, “Burn in hell… cunt.”


	24. In Which Dumbledore’s Founders Play is Played

From “Marvissimo’s Entertainment Column” in _The Daily Prophet_ :

**_DUMBLEDORE’S NEW PLAY A KNOCKOUT SHOCKER!_ **

_It seems that Albus Dumbledore can do no wrong. Just six months after backing Harry Potter to victory against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has made his mark on the world of theater with his new play_ The Quadrangle _. An update on Charles Durdge’s 1641 classic_ Founders Play, _this drama improves its source material on every level. It is as if Dumbledore wasn’t happy with his advances in alchemy, his discoveries on dragon blood, his position as Supreme Mugwump, his defeat of Grindelwald, and his informal title of the most powerful wizard of our time—no, he just_ had _to add accomplished playwright to that dizzying list. Crowds turned out in droves to see just what Dumbledore could do. I was among them, and I was on the verge of dishing out Stinging Hexes just to get through the door. After all, a play written by Dumbledore, even if it had been utter codswallop, is a guaranteed intrigue._

_However, for all its sudden and explosive popularity, this play almost didn’t premiere. For a month beforehand, the Parent-Teacher Association spent all its energy trying to stop Dumbledore’s theatrical creation from coming to fruition, citing its explicit content as being a danger to their children’s well-being. It all came to a head on Friday, December 5 th, when the PTA had Dumbledore arrested and brought to court…_

~~~~~

 

From “ALBUS DUMBLEDORE ON TRIAL” in _Geezer’s Gazette_ :

 

_…Albus Dumbledore entered the courtroom naked, upon which he was chained in the central chair and submitted to an unfair trial that ran nearly 45 minutes in length. Despite the situation, our favorite headmaster managed to retain his cool. (Photos on the opposite page—Top: Albus sits naked in the chair while the judge speaks. Middle left: Albus sits naked in the chair while the jury deliberates a comment from a nonexistent animal. Middle right: Albus sits naked in the chair while the students come to his defense. Bottom: Close-up of Albus Dumbledore sitting in the chair and wiggling his ample manhood at a slow moment during the trial.)…_

~~~~~

 

From “HEEBRIPPLE AIDS DUMBLEDORE IN TRIAL” in _The Quibbler:_

 

            _…Though more than one student made impassioned speeches in Albus Dumbledore’s defense, he would have been convicted were in not for the brilliance of one Heebripple, a close friend of Luna Lovegood, who, incidentally, is the daughter of this periodical’s esteemed editor._

_The Heebripple took to the witness stand and defended Albus Dumbledore’s innocence, while at the same time explaining why exactly the headmaster had the right to include nudity in a school play. Cheese peas chickpeas chick-penis (next clue: page Archduke minus Dippet’s birth date). The jury was wowed by the creature’s superior defense, and the parents could only bow their heads in shame as their fraudulent arguments blew up in their faces. The students were so grateful that they even reserved a seat for the Heebripple at the play._

_Much to this reporter’s horror, one parent claimed she couldn’t see the Heebripple. “It doesn’t exist!” yelled Ms. Narcissa Black (who will remain nameless to protect her identity) as she stamped her foot in fury._

_Clearly this lady is lacking in Bender Elements—it is the only explanation for such a shocking absence of Pre-eternal knowledge. Bender deficiency is known to cause reverse hallucinations, mutant pregnancies, and a strong inclination towards odd fetishes. This reporter can only pray that Ms. Black hasn’t had a child already…_

~~~~~

 

From “Marvissimo’s Entertainment Column” in _The Daily Prophet_ (cont’d):

 

            _…In the end, however, Harry Potter swayed the parents with his star power to such an extent that they dropped the case. Immediately afterwards, the cast and crew of_ The Quadrangle _went back to Hogwarts with their director to rehearse the play one last time._

_One question remains in the uninformed reader’s mind: Was the play worth all that trouble? Was the content really so graphic as to merit an all-out campaign by the PTA? Was the play really so excellent as to merit the entire cast and crew flooding the court room in the director’s defense?_

_First off, yes, the play was that graphic. I saw things I never thought I’d see onstage. In the opening scene, House-elves dressed in animal costumes ate synthesized umbilical cords after simulating graphic animal birth. Then came a whorehouse orgy a few scenes later, complete with skanky costumes, kinky implements, and even a gigantic penis statue. I saw Godric Gryffindor seducing at least a dozen people over the course of the play, indiscriminate between men and women, wizards and Muggles. I heard hundreds of profanities in all, sometimes half a dozen in one line. And I saw Harry Potter and his costar naked onstage for seven long minutes._

_And yet, the play_ was _excellent enough to warrant the kind of solidarity the students displayed. For starters, the poetry and prose are both of the utmost quality. The pictures the words paint are sometimes exhilarating, sometimes disgusting, but always vivid. Ravenclaw’s monologue in Act II, in which she confesses to herself that she does indeed love the lowly stable boy, was such a heartfelt tribute to forbidden love that it was all I could do to keep from crying._

_Then there’s the storyline. This is a Founders play, and yet these are not the founders we learned about in school. This is how they were in real life: Noble Gryffindor goes to the whorehouse, best friends Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff argue like demons, and Slytherin helps a young witch torture her abusive stepfather. In betwixt this melodrama, the four founders build the school, and Olivier the battle hero coerces them into supporting his cause against the evil wizard Xaxis. At first this seems irreverent, like a parody gone bad. But then slowly I began to notice the brilliance with which the sly mix of humor and drama had converged, until I didn’t care any longer what was proper and what was not, just so long as the story kept going!_

_Yet when I interviewed a few historians in the audience after the play, I was shocked to learn that_ The Quadrangle _is, in fact, a good deal more historically accurate than Charles Durdge’s original work._

_“History books don’t like to throw this around,” said historic researcher Plinius Nackledirk, “but Godric Gryffindor was just as much of a slut as we saw tonight. Slytherin was just as sadistic, and Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were just as narcissistic—Dumbledore’s script, as satirical as it may seem, was actually very accurate. The Founders did a great thing in starting this school, and that’s what we remember them for, but it takes more than a history-changing event to make a saint…”_

~~~~~

 

From “A FOUNDERS PLAY ACTUALLY WORTH SEEING” in _Witch Weekly_ :

            _...The musical numbers rounded the performance off into a perfect whole. There was a rousing battle march in Act III that was so full of profanity that I could hardly understand the actual song, though perhaps that was because the audience was cheering so hard. No easier to follow, and no less entertaining, was a madly-paced song in the whorehouse scene with such hilarious double, triple, and quadruple entendres that the audience was laughing too hard to catch them all. On a more serious not, Ravenclaw’s powerful “I’ve Loved You and Have Never Said a Word” left hardly a dry eye in the hall._

_But my favorite song—and the favorite song of every female in attendance—was Harry Potter and Luna Lovegood’s reprise during their nude scene. The marvelous thing about this number was that Harry Potter was naked throughout the whole thing. For three minutes he and Luna Lovegood simulated sexual activity against a bale of hay (see the age-protected photo on the left) in a rough consummation of their escalating passion throughout the past three acts. This scene is so stark, so uncompromising in its aggression, that the viewer is sure Ravenclaw and the stable boy would have gone mad had they not made love._

_Then came the reprise…_

~~~~~

From “HARRY’S HEAVY COCK” in _Playwitch_ :

            _…For a rave review of Dumbledore’s_ The Quadrangle _, flip back to page 12. This review is focused entirely on the thing that made us come in the first place: Harry’s Adonis cock._

_It is every bit as marvelous as we wanted it to be. It is a cock fit for the hero he is. When his leather britches slid down his muscled legs, the magnificent beast wriggled free and hung, hot and heavy, against his thigh. Accompanying it was a cloud of jet black pubic hair that was both lustrous and untamed at once. Thanks to our special zoom lenses, we were able to deliver every inch of that penis to your eager eyes in high-definition detail (see pages 31-97)._

_But seeing isn’t everything. Now you must put yourself in the place of Luna Lovegood, for her labia was a lucky labia. For three minutes, they remained wrapped around each other, thrusting their hips together with such vigor that we almost believed their supposed simulation was the real deal. So imagine, ladies, that that magnificent cock hardened into 20 centimeters of shafted glory and invaded every cubic centimeter of your pussy. We here are getting wet just writing about it!…_

~~~~~

 

From “LUNA LOVEGOOD’S LOONY LABIA” in _Playwizard_ :

            _…If all the women went to see Harry Potter’s cock, all the men went to see his costar, who stood next to him in equal nakedness. Ravenclaw, as the rave review on Page 8 will tell you, was played by the dazzling Luna Lovegood, whom classmates affectionately call “Loony.”_

_After Act IV, scene iii, it is clear why she is called Loony!_

_It is because her smoking-hot body will drive you crazy. Even the most level-headed lad will go loony over Luna Lovegood’s labia. In one fell swoop she removed her dress over her head and answered our thousand-year-old question: Did Rowena Ravenclaw wear anything under her robes? The answer?—no!_

_For the first millisecond we saw her pussy. Her pubes, like the rest of her hair, were a bright blonde, light enough in color that we saw her slotted entrance through that gleaming forest. “I trimmed my pubic hair a little,” Luna confided to us in an interview after the play. “To neaten it up, you know. I asked Harry if he did the same to his, but he only blushed.”_

_The next millisecond revealed her perfect breasts. They were firm and round, strong enough to bear their entire weight without the least hint of a sag or a flop. Specks of perspiration gleamed on her nipples, which were erect in anticipation of Harry’s magic fingers. And yet, even with this glorious image imprinted in our brains, it is impossible for us to describe just how fucking perfect she was, so we employed the aid of our top-of-the-line cameras in capturing every movement she made on that stage (see pages 21-65)…_

~~~~~

 

From “Marvissimo’s Entertainment Column” in _The Daily Prophet_ (cont’d):

            _…Nudity or no nudity, though,_ The Quadrangle _is a breathtaking production. The script alone is strong, but its stellar cast rockets it into the stratosphere…_

~~~~

 

From “HARRY’S HEAVY COCK” in _Playwitch_ (cont’d):

_…Harry has the acting chops to match his cock…_

~~~~~

From “LUNA LOVEGOOD’S LOONY LABIA” in _Playwizard_ (cont’d):

            _…If anything could equal Luna’s nude form (which indeed might not be possible), it’d be the conviction with which she delivers her performance. She could have been a terrible actor and we’d still be jacking off, but her charisma propels a sexy role to a role that’s so hot you will blow a couple thousand brain cells…_

~~~~~

 

From “A FOUNDERS PLAY ACTUALLY WORTH SEEING” in _Witch Weekly_ (cont’d):

            _…Perhaps the best actor, though, was Clifford Chatterley in the role of Olivier the battle hero. From his first expletive-filled monologue, he stormed the stage with an energy that matched the epic battles that Dumbledore so cleverly choreographed in the last half of the play. He kept the audience’s attention on himself, even throughout the best of those battle scenes… and that is saying a lot, because Dumbledore’s real-life battle experience has translated to the stage in every way…_

~~~~~

 

From “THE HEEBRIPPLE’S REVIEW” in _The Quibbler:_

            _…Clifford made my sextemporaneous undulator perambulate. As a battle hero, he really made me want to obey him! When he said “Shit,” I wanted loosen my bowels where I sat. When he said “Fuck,” I wanted to find the nearest hole and penetrate it. And when he said “Damn it all,” I wanted to imitate a Fundamentalist Christian…_

~~~~~

 

From “Marvissimo’s Entertainment Column” in _The Daily Prophet_ (cont’d):

            _…Take notice, Wizarding World! Clifford Chatterley is a force to be reckoned with. If he’s half as compelling as his performance suggests, he’ll rise to the top of our society, bringing with him some much-needed change (and energy!). From the moment he stepped onstage, he gave me no doubt that he was the scene-stealer (and I mean that in the best way possible, because he never once drew inappropriate attention away from the Founders), the one the entire audience wanted to cheer on. And cheer him on they did. In fact, after Olivier’s final expletive-filled monologue in Act IV, the audience actually_ did _cheer._

_Of course, that’s nothing compared to the applause at the end. When the curtains closed, the entire Great Hall rumbled as two thousand witches, wizards, and Muggle parents flew to their feet and brought their hands together in a hailstorm of ovation. Everyone who came loved the play, and every seat was filled! Every seat, that is, except for one, which remained vacant, despite the small crowd that had to be turned away at the door. Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of_ The Quibbler _, took it upon himself to explain this empty seat to me. “I bought it,” he said. “The Heebripple is in it.”Maybe he was joking, or maybe he’s as insane as everyone says he is, but he did buy the seat, and it’s his money…_

~~~~~

From “THE HEEBRIPPLE’S REVIEW” in _The Quibbler_ (cont’d) _:_

            … _Xenophilius was good enough to secure me a seat, for which I am forever in his debt. This play was orgasmtastic, and I recommend it highly to anyone who wants to have their Nittles buddled, or anyone who just wants to have a good time._

_Inevitable comparisons shall arise between Dumbledore’s_ The Quadrangle _and Durdge’s_ Founders Play. _Dumbledore’s play arse-rapes Durdge’s until it vomits blood chunks out its sphincter and onto the floor. In utter honesty, this Heebripple has never been in auralicious agreement with Durdge’s mess of a script…_

~~~~~

 

From “A FOUNDERS PLAY ACTUALLY WORTH SEEING” in _Witch Weekly_ (cont’d):

            _…Forget Charles Durdge’s 17 th Century clunker. Dumbledore’s play is the Founders Play to beat, and anyone with any sense in literature or entertainment would choose _The Quadrangle _in a heartbeat…_

~~~~~

 

From “WHAT DUMBLEDORE FOUND IN THE FOUNDERS” in _Playwizard_ :

            _…I must come out of the critics’ closet and admit: I have always hated Durdge’s play. The poetry is uneven, and the prose is dry. Where there are rhymes, they are simplistic and poor. Where there are no rhymes, there is no rhythm. The storylines are uninteresting, the characters are desperately broad, and the history is surprisingly inaccurate. The only thing that’s kept Durdge in our memories is that he is practically the only playwright in the Wizarding World who wasn’t born in the past 100 years. Now that Dumbledore has risen to challenge him, and succeeded past our wildest dreams, I hope Durdge suffers a fate he should have suffered 400 years ago by fading quickly from our memories…_

~~~~~

 

From “WHAT, IT’S WORTH MORE THAN THE NUDITY?” in _Playwitch_ :

            _…Compared to Dumbledore, Durdge is definitely deficient. There is no question about it…_

~~~~~

From “HARRY’S HEAVY COCK” in _Playwitch_ (cont’d):

            _…Durdge’s play doesn’t have Harry’s gargantuan dick in it, or any dick at all…_

~~~~~

From “LUNA LOVEGOOD’S LOONY LABIA” in _Playwizard_ (cont’d):

_…Durdge’s play has been placed against Luna’s perfect arsehole and reamed to death by Harry Potter…_

~~~~~

 

From “Marvissimo’s Entertainment Column” in _The Daily Prophet_ (cont’d):

            _…It’s the truth, folks—Dumbledore defeats Durdge! If you want actual proof, Durdge’s play was never performed in Muggle theaters. And yet two of the Muggle parents in attendance have all but secured_ The Quadrangle _a place in London’s West End theater, where it will be performed as a fantasy play instead of historical fiction…_

~~~~~

 

From “THE HEEBRIPPLE’S REVIEW” in _The Quibbler_ (cont’d) _:_

            _…So basically, all’s well that ends well, and this Heebripple predicts that on Saturday night the Hogwarts Great Hall will be so packed and the audience so excited that the world record for the largest Cockmice gathering may be broken._

~~~~~

 

Final verdict:

_Daily Prophet:_ *****/*****

_Witch Weekly:_ 10/10

_Playwizard:_ ****/****

_Playwitch:_ ****/****

_The Quibbler: Razzkiller score of  +183.26_


	25. Dumbledore Explains His Twisted Logic

            By Sunday, December 7th, it was all over. Scratch that, the play was over; its repercussions, however, lasted a lifetime… and beyond. But never mind about a lifetime: Clifford Oliver Chatterley decided that he’d be taking his newfound freedom in daily portions. Gone were the days of uncontrollable worrying—he now was rid of that person who dared call herself his mother, and everyone else in the school had come forward to support his situation. It was immensely heart-warming when Ron sat him down and started making plans for Christmas break at the Weasley’s house.

            All the same, it was a bit disconcerting to realize that he, Clifford, now had no true family. Sure, Ron and Ginny were all too eager to step in as replacements, and doubtless they’d run circles around his mum in terms of familial solidarity. But _still_ … he had technically turned himself into an orphan.

            But then something happened on Sunday night that made everything better: Connie talked to him. Yes, that batty old woman who had tormented him just a few weeks ago came up to him during dinner and brightened his whole day.

            “Hi hi hi there, Clifford,” she trilled. “Mind if I separate you from your friends for just a few quick moments?”

            Clifford exchanged glances with Ron, Ginny, Harry, Hermione, Luna, and Gregory, who were sitting with him, and they accepted his nonverbal attempt to excuse himself.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be here when you get back,” Ron said.

            “We won’t be long,” Connie promised them. And she slipped her hand around Clifford’s forearm and steered him gently towards the Entrance Hall.

            “So, Ms.…”

            “Connie,” she said. “Please, call me Connie.”

            “Okay then, Connie. What did you want to talk about?”

            “A few things, actually,” Connie said. “First of all, I want to congratulate you on your performance and all those wonderful rave reviews.”

            “I got rave reviews?” Clifford said, a little taken aback. “Really?”

            “Of course, my dear, everyone’s read them!” Connie said, impatient in the sweetest way possible. “You were… I don’t know how to put it… Whatever Dumbledore dreamed about, even wildly, he never thought _anyone_ could play the battle hero so perfectly. And you did, Clifford, you really did. You should see just how happy you’ve made that old man!”

            “Oh, is that why he keeps grinning all the time?” Clifford said, offering up a chuckle. “I thought it was his senility.”

            Connie roared with laughter and slapped her loose-skinned thigh. “Oh, Clifford, that’s a good one! I must make it a point to tell him!”

            “Oh! No, that’s not—”

            “Don’t worry, boy. Dumbledore loves a good joke!”

            “Oh…” Clifford calmed down and realized that it actually wouldn’t be the end of the world if Dumbledore knew Clifford was poking fun at him. After all, Dumbledore always had a great sense of humor, and it seemed only to have grown in recent years.

            “Ah, yes…” Connie sighed, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “Now where were we?”

            “You were congratulating me,” Clifford prompted.

            “Yes, I was.” Connie revved up her train of thought and took off. “Yes, and I also wanted to apologize.”

            “For what?” Clifford said automatically, though his mind flew instantly to her previous bullying attacks.

            “For misjudging you, my dear,” she said matter-of-factly. “I must admit, I expected you to be as weak as the man you were named for.”

            “My great-grandfather?” Clifford queried, twisting his eyebrows. “What, did you know him?”

            “I did, as a matter of fact,” Connie said. “I was married to him.”

            “You _what_?” Clifford was quite taken aback. The idea that he was actually related to this oddball female version of Dumbledore seemed highly coincidental, not to mention a bit disconcerting.

            “Yes. Constance Chatterley,” she said, allowing herself a wry smile. “Or Lady Chatterley, as I was known back then.”

            “But that’s not possible,” Clifford whispered, “You can’t be… my great-grandmother?”

            “Oh no, dear,” Connie said quickly. “We got divorced. He was crippled from the waist down. His dick was soft as cheese, and I ran off with the gamekeeper.”

            When she said “gamekeeper,” Clifford’s mind instantly flew to Hagrid, and he had to shake his head to clear out the awful image.

            “Oliver Mellors, his name was,” Connie said dreamily, clasping her hands together like a schoolgirl. “We’d fuck in his cottage, not even half-a-mile from the house, and we had enough explicit sex to fill a sizeable novel.”

            “Oh,” Clifford said. “Um…” Despite his new-found confidence, this was still an awkward situation. A lady as old as the trees was confessing that she was his great-grandfather’s first wife and that she had cheated on him after he became crippled. Except “confessing” was much too contrite a description for the way she was telling the story.

            “Who did he marry after me?” she asked curiously. “Was it that Ivy woman?”

            “Ivy Bolton,” Clifford said. “Ivana perverted her own name into its current form because she thought Ivy sounded too meek.” He didn’t call that lady his mum anymore, because she wasn’t… not in his eyes.

            “Haha. Hahahaha!” Connie laughed uproariously again. “He married the servant! Well, I guess it turned out well, didn’t it? So he actually got it up for her?”

            “Apparently,” Clifford said uncomfortably. It wasn’t so much that he was embarrassed by her frank dialogue, but because it was his family they were talking about.

            “He must have recovered,” Connie said pensively.

            “Just enough, I suppose,” Clifford said. “He still used a wheelchair, and they only had one child.”

            “Who they named Oliver,” Connie said, growing even more meditative.

            “Which is my middle name.”

            “Yes, but _Oliver_ … that’s really interesting. So they actually named him after the man I ran away with?”

            “Did they?”

            Connie held her hands up in a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Clifford still… I dunno... _love_ isn’t the right word, because we didn’t really love each other… he must have still… _appreciated_ what we had.”

            Clifford flashed an awkward half-smile and didn’t speak because he had no idea what to say.

            “Whatever,” Connie said, snapping out of her pensive state. “Anyway, as I was saying, I expected you to be weak and foolish like my ex-husband Clifford, but you weren’t. Forget about your performance in the play: Your performance in the court room was the best thing I’ve seen in the past sixteen-and-three-quarters years!”

            “Thanks,” Clifford said, this time grinning sincerely. “I think it’s only right to tell you that you inspired me to stand up to Ivana.”

            “I did, did I?” Connie cooed happily. “Why, imagine that!”

            “Yes. When you were bullying me in Dumbledore’s office, and I told you to shut up, that was the very first time I had stood up to someone without anybody else’s help. So I knew I could do it, you see? And that’s what helped me stand up to my mother.”

            “Wonderful,” Connie said briskly. “I admit I was aiming to provoke you into action. I just hope I didn’t overdo it—so if I did (I did, didn’t I?), I’m dreadfully sorry. I promise: no more bullying. I hope we can become fast friends.”

            “We can,” Clifford said, a grin slowly spreading across his face, “ _if_ you will tell me just what happened sixteen-and-three-quarters years ago that beats my courtroom rhetoric.”

            “Oh that,” Connie said jovially. “Well, I was getting old, and dear Oliver had just died, so my kids wanted to shuttle me into a nursing home, bless them. Naturally, I didn’t take well to that, so I escaped.”

            “Escaped?” Clifford said, letting out an incredulous laugh.

            “As in escaped the nursing home.”

            “Haha! How the hell did you do that?”

            “Actually, Albus helped me,” Connie admitted. “He Apparated into my room, upon which I helped him set up all manner of magic trickery. But we disguised it behind lots of loud bangs and noises, you see, so it wouldn’t look like magic. We rigged everything tremendously, and then Dumbledore whisked me away.”

            “You rigged the room, you say?” Clifford said.

            “Indeed, we rigged the room. We planned it so that the next person who opened the door would get coated in gooey, milky, luke-warm candle wax. Then everything in the room would start falling down and making tremendous crashes. Then the bed would break, the ceiling would crack, and the ancient bedside table would just crumble away. Lastly, the bathroom door would start spewing blood through the cracks. That last part was Albus’s idea—he has a boner for Kubrick, and I have a special spot on my clitoris for horror movies, and we had gone to see _The Shining_ a few months before, and we loved the elevator sequence. But I digress.

            “Anyway, we meant for Miss Craig, my mean nurse, to find my goodbye gift. Unfortunately, another nursing home resident wandered into my room by accident and got the surprise to end all surprises—that is to say, she died of a heart attack. And the entire hall heard the commotion, so two more people died of heart attacks as well.”

            The laughter died from Clifford’s face as Connie killed the mood. She shook her head, her poker-face forcing a smile from her lips, and said, “Oh Lord, when we heard, Albus and I felt rather guilty. But then we learned it was old Mrs. Phoenix that died, along with Mr. Rivers and Mr. Fox. And they were all on their last leg anyway; they were pretty miserable in the nursing home. And they had no relatives. So then we actually felt rather good about it; we figured the three of them are looking down at us and thanking us graciously for sending them off in style. I’m not quite sure, because I first met them when they were basically mental, but I think all three of them had been fond of pranks earlier in life. So… no harm done!” And, unable to maintain her calm any longer, she burst into laughter.

            Clifford couldn’t help it. He knew he shouldn’t, but he started laughing too. Somehow, in both the best and worst way possible, it was inexplicably hilarious. I mean, it was death he was laughing about, but why couldn’t it be funny? Why was death so bad that it couldn’t be laughed at? People accepted jokes about serial killers and religious fanatics and annoying little kids, and every one of those was a million times worse than death. Besides, Dumbledore always said never to be afraid of death, that death was the next great adventure, so why not look at it, throw back your head, and guffaw your guts out?

            “You know what, Connie?” Clifford said, setting aside thoughts of death for the time being. “You’re really cool. Why don’t you come eat dinner with my friends and me?”

            “’Twill do,” Connie said. And she draped her hand around his arm again.

            Clifford was about to lead them both into the Great Hall when the double doors opened and out stepped Susan Bones. “Oh, Clifford!” she said, suddenly breathless. “How wonderful to see you! I was hoping we could talk.”

            Connie pursed her lips a little and gave Clifford a wry smile. “I’ll see you at the dinner table,” she said before slipping past Susan and into the Great Hall.

            Clifford turned to face Susan Bones, the one girl he had had a crush on for his entire school career. She stared back, and for the first time her gaze bore him no contempt. In fact, by the way she quirked her eyebrows and giggled, she seemed quite taken with him.

            “So, Clifford,” she said breathlessly, “congratulations on your performance. You were the _best_ person in the whole play! Even the newspapers said so.”

            “Thanks,” Clifford replied.

            “I can’t believe we haven’t hung out before,” she continued, stepping closer to him. “What d’you say we… spend more time together?” When she was done speaking she left her mouth open so that her tongue could sneak out onto her lipsticked lips. With one finger she twirled a lock of her hair, and with the other hand she loosened a button on her robes to reveal a generous quantity of cleavage.

            And yet as Clifford gazed at her, he felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Something had happened to him—the last time he had thought about Susan, he had had a crush on her. Then there was that whole commotion with the parents trying to sabotage the play, then the hours and hours of rehearsing three times a week, then the court case, then the two nights’ performances. Now that it was all over, he thought about Susan again, and he realized: He didn’t have a crush on her.

            Come to think of it, he didn’t even like her. In fact, she disgusted him. She was snotty and stuck up, and she acted as if everyone should worship her on principle, just because she was modestly rich and had big breasts. The truth was, she was immature and insecure. She only wanted to be with Clifford because he wasn’t Loser any longer. And because he’d gotten rave reviews in the newspapers.

            _I don’t like her anymore_ , Clifford told himself, completely as peace with the idea. _When I was Loser, I was foolish and insecure, so naturally I was attracted to Susan, who was just as foolish and insecure as I was, though I was too blind to see it. But now that I’ve finally gained some confidence, I’m no longer attracted to her. In fact, I find her sort of pathetic._

“So, what d’you say?” Susan repeated breathlessly.

            “Whatever,” Clifford said mildly. “I’d rather not.”

            And he went back into the Great Hall, not even turning around to see the expression on Susan’s face. Maybe she looked shocked, or maybe hurt, or maybe furious—but he didn’t give a fuck. In a minute he was back with Harry, Luna, Ron, Hermione, Goyle, and Ginny, who were all eating with Connie.

            “Hey there, Clifford!” Connie called when she saw him. “Your friends are telling me their hobbies. What book did you say you were reading, Hermione?”

            “ _Sons and Lovers_ ,” Hermione said. “And actually, I’m _re_ reading it. I’m rereading all of D.H. Lawrence’s novels.”

            “D.H. Lawrence, huh?” Connie said. “Sounds familiar.”

            “Have you read any of his works?” Hermione asked excitedly.

            “Can’t say I have,” Connie replied. “Would I like them?”

            “Oh, you would!” Hermione and Gregory promised at the same time. Connie laughed at the two of them and shook her head.

            “I just might check him out, then,” she said.

 

***********

 

            The next week was almost too good for Harry to bear. On Monday afternoon he left class… and didn’t have to go to play practice! Instead, he and Luna sneaked out of Hogwarts and Apparated to Hogsmeade, where they did some Christmas shopping and sight-seeing before having wild sex in the back of Dervish and Bangs. Then they walked home together, holding tightly to each other to protect themselves from the cruel winter wind. The same thing happened Wednesday.

            On Wednesday evening, Harry came back to Hogwarts to find Hermione in a state of euphoria.

            “Harry!” she squealed the moment she saw him. “Harry, Luna, guess what! Professor Vector is the best teacher ever! She graded _all_ our projects in five days, and guess what I got?”

            “An O,” Harry said.

            “How did you guess?” Hermione gasped, her voice now so high it sounded ready to break. “I was _sooo_ shocked! I thought I was hyperventilating, I was so happy! I was afraid I’d get a P!”

            “That’s stupid,” Luna remarked casually. “You’re the smartest witch in the school; why would you get a P?”

            “Yeah,” Ron said, “and you’d better watch out, or you’ll be hyperventilating _now_.”

Everyone spent the next few minutes celebrating Hermione’s success, though the witch herself was the only one that was surprised. Afterwards, they rejoiced in the fact that the whole play ordeal was over.

            “It was fun while it lasted,” Ron said fairly. “That the reporters all loved us only made it better. But it was way too much fucking work!”

            “Yeah, I think it’ll be more fun buying tickets for a West End showing,” Ginny said. Yesterday it had been confirmed: _The Quadrangle_ had officially been picked up and was going to open in April. It was being renamed, however, to _The Four Founders_ , because its original name actually wasn’t the most enticing, and the Muggle world wouldn’t show up simply to see a play written by Albus Dumbledore.

            “I can’t wait to see _someone else_ doing my nude scene,” Harry said dryly. “I’m going to be pointing and laughing as his thing wags in front of the audience for seven straight minutes, knowing full well that he’ll have to do that dozens more times than I did.”

            “But it wasn’t all that bad, was it?” Luna asked Harry.

            “I dunno,” Harry shrugged. “At least I didn’t get an erection onstage. It must have been all the eyes watching us: I don’t think I could ever have sex in public, even with you.”

            “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” Ginny said almost before Harry was done speaking. Indeed, she sounded uncomfortable, as if she really did need to go to the bathroom, but even Harry guessed that that wasn’t the case. Her face had fallen the moment Harry mentioned his nude scene; when Luna had spoken, Ginny looked even more upset. Harry kicked himself for not having talked to her already; they hadn’t exchanged a word since they broke up, and any conversation that included the both of them and their friends had always had an awkward edge to it.

            “I’ve got to go, too,” Harry said quickly, fooling no one. “How about I accompany you, Ginny?”

            Ginny stiffened at hearing her name spoken by Harry Potter.  Yet she didn’t complain or refuse his company. Instead, she said stiffly, “Come on, then.” And they left the Great Hall with their friends staring at their backs.

            This wasn’t something Harry wanted to do at all; setting things straight with Ginny was about as terrifying as fighting Voldemort again. In fact, it was worse: Harry hadn’t felt much remorse over killing someone as evil as the Dark Lord, but trying to smooth things over with the girlfriend who used to love him was a guilt trip and a half. So Harry pretended like he was in battle and plunged straight into it.

            “Look, Ginny, I’m sorry for—”

            “Yeah?” Her voice was rapid-fire and clipped, like a machine gun.

            “I’m sorry for being an awful boyfriend. And for, um, stringing you on for months when I just wanted to break up with you.”

            Ginny stopped walking and crossed her arms, neither saying a word nor moving her face from its cold, calculating glare.

            “And, uh… I’m sorry it all ended like this. We sorta… fucked up. I mean, _I_ sorta fucked up. I—”

            “No, you’re right,” Ginny interrupted abruptly.

            “What?”

            “ _We_ fucked up,” Ginny clarified. “I’m sorry, too.”

            “I wish there was some better way for me to apologize—”

            “Don’t try,” Ginny advised him. “It’s… I forgive you.”

            “I do, too,” Harry said awkwardly. “Um… so does this mean… I mean, d’you think we can still be friends?”

            “No,” Ginny said immediately. “I really don’t see that happening.”

            Harry smiled weakly and kicked at the ground. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing… just thought I’d offer, you know?”

            “Yes, I do,” Ginny said.

            “But we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other,” Harry warned her. “I’m still Ron’s best friend, and he’s still your brother. I’m going to be over for Christmas, and all of us will still eat meals together in the Great Hall.”

            “I know. It’ll be awkward. Very awkward.”

            “Especially the questions from your parents and your brothers,” Harry said sheepishly.

            “Oh Merlin, kill me now!” Ginny sighed, rolling her eyes.

            “And Luna’s going to be eating with us now, just like Gregory.”

            “And it just gets better and better.”

            “I’m just warning you ahead of time,” Harry said. He wondered if he should ask Ginny if she had found a new boyfriend yet, but he decided that’d be cruel. “Once again, I’m sorry.”

            “You already said that,” Ginny said.

            “Yeah, I did,” Harry said, feeling more than a little foolish. “Yeah… so, I’m going back to dinner. I didn’t really need to go to the bathroom.”

            “Neither did I,” Ginny said. “I was going to go upstairs.”

            “See you around, then,” Harry said. And he turned around, letting out a whoosh of a sigh.

            That hadn’t gone so badly. His heart still hammered in his chest, and his limbs were shaky, just as if he’d been in a real battle, but he had emerged victorious. All the same, it was too bad there wasn’t a better solution to this Ginny situation. Things would never totally heal between them, and even if they managed to be friendly later on in life, there’d still be a slight frost in their interaction. He turned around to see if she was still within sight. When he saw she wasn’t, he ran at top speed back into the Great Hall, glad to have that conversation out of the way.

 

**********

 

            That night, Dumbledore entered McGonagall’s office and set a small box on her desk, right above the essays she was grading.

            “Good evening, Albus,” Minerva said, looking curiously at the box. “What is that?”

            “Merry Christmas,” Albus said. “It’s your cat toy. But of course that’s not your Christmas present: It’s the bribe I promised you earlier.”

            The events from that fateful night rushed back into McGonagall brain. This cat toy was the reason Sybil Trelawney was now dead! If she, Minerva McGonagall, hadn’t been so intent on earning it, she wouldn’t have allowed Dumbledore to bribe her into going up to the North Tower to deliver a letter, and Sybil Trelawney wouldn’t have accidentally raped her. The Transfiguration teacher heaved back into her chair, her eyes wide and her hands shaking near her chin. “I…” she said, trying to collect herself. “I… Albus, I can’t accept it.”

            Dumbledore cocked his head to the right and stared questioningly at his Transfiguration professor. “Why ever not, my dear Minnie?” he queried. “I thought you loved cat toys.”

            “No, I do,” Minerva said quickly. “But it’s not that. It’s… it’s about Sybil.” Here she choked up, both terrified and relieved to admit it. “Oh, Albus, it’s my fault she’s dead! I—I went up to her tower like you told me, but when I got there, she thought I was someone else, so she started tearing off my clothes and—and screaming: ‘F-fuck me to death! Fuck me to death!’ But then when she realized I was also screaming, she recognized me! She was so mortified that she went crazy and started hallucinating. Then she ran off, half-naked. The next morning, she was found dead in the Prefects’ Bathroom.”

            Dumbledore smiled a little and patted her hand. “Sssh, Minerva, it’s all right,” he said, his voice calm and soothing. “It’s not your fault—it’s mine. You see, around forty years ago we had a one-night stand. At that time I made it very clear to her that it was just sex and that we didn’t love each other, but then she became pregnant. She tried to lasso me into a relationship with her, but I refused. You see, I could read her well enough to know that she wasn’t doing it for the baby, but so she could have me and keep me. Naturally, I didn’t like her attitude in the matter, so I tried not to be a part of it. And sure enough, when Sybil realized I wouldn’t be roped into a relationship, she gave the baby up for adoption.”

            Minerva’s eyes were wide and her mouth was open. Dumbledore told the story like it was a familiar anecdote, and yet it was the biggest bombshell of gossip he had ever dropped in the entire sixty years she had known him! How could he be so calm about something so tremendously inconvenient? “Do you know where that child is now?”

            “Certainly,” Albus said. “We’re the best of friends; I helped him get a job as a school governor.”

            There were twelve school governors, but it didn’t take Minerva more than two seconds to realize which one it was. “Xenophilius Lovegood,” she said without a doubt. “There’s no other man who could be the love child of you and Sybil.”

            “Lust child,” Albus corrected her with a frown. “I didn’t love Sybil, you see. I’m only glad she realized that neither of us would have made a good parent for Xeno and that he was far better off being adopted by the Lovegood family.”

            “Yes, yes,” Minerva agreed. “But what does that have to do with Sybil’s death?”

            “Well, recently Sybil has been short of loving,” Dumbledore explained, “despite the fact that I’m pretty sure she’d been having an affair with someone since the beginning of the school year. So she sent me a love note over breakfast one day. And so I returned a note saying that our relationship was strictly that of an employer and his employee—that was the note I made you give her. She probably came back after you left, read the note, _then_ went off to kill herself.”

            As Minerva’s brain processed this new information, her stomach slowly buoyed in her chest until she felt almost as happy as she had during Act IV, scene iii of Dumbledore’s play. It wasn’t her fault that Trelawney was dead. And even if Sybil Trelawney _hadn’t_ read the note, for what exactly did McGonagall have to blame herself? Trelawney was probably boinking Moaning Myrtle right now—certainly that wasn’t a bad thing, at least not for the Divination professor. McGonagall gave Dumbledore a sincere smile and said, “Thank you, Albus. And thank you for the snake chew. Just don’t be too hard on yourself; it was her decision and hers alone to kill herself. And she’s better off for it.”

            Albus smiled a little and patted her arm. “To tell the truth, I already came to that conclusion,” he said. “So I feel no guilt or regret.”

 

~~~~~

 

            Outside the office Draco Malfoy was listening at the door, and he heard every word. After Dumbledore had finished speaking, he gave a sigh of relief.

            It wasn’t his fault that Trelawney had died! He could now blame Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore, or even the old seer herself! Feeling considerably more light-hearted, he decided to show Professor McGonagall his Transfiguration essay tomorrow. For now, he simply sneaked quietly back to his room, making sure to avoid any sex-hungry girls along the way.

 

**********

 

            On Tuesday night a girl went to the Hospital Wing with a collection of bodily chancres. Madame Pomfrey gave a diagnosis, and the girl went off to bed without telling anyone. And yet by breakfast time the next morning, everybody knew:

            Millicent Bulstrode had syphilis.

            By the time classes started, everyone who had participated in the orgy nine days ago knew. They also knew that syphilis was a sexually transmitted disease, because, much to their horror, half the Muggle-borns had spent breakfast talking about STDs. So every one of them opted out of their first class so they could rush to the hospital wing for a checkup.

            Draco caught the tail end of the group, still a bit too numb from shock to realize what was going on. He had heard about Millicent’s condition from Nott, at which point Seamus Finnegan came over from the Gryffindor table to give them all the gory details of sexually transmitted diseases.

            “STD’s make your dick sprout with red boils!” he said excitedly. “Then they pop and ooze pus. Oh, and when you take a piss, blood comes out, and it burns. It’s like having pins stuck up your urethra.”

            Draco didn’t want to know how Seamus knew about this. And yet it was with this vivid mental image that the Slytherin boy stumbled into the hospital wing, heart hammering and palms sweating. _I might actually be infected!_ He thought. _Is this syphilis fatal? Or will it make me impotent for the rest of my life? Which would be worse?_

            Madame Pomfrey tut-tutted at the sight of twenty-nine students packed inside the Hospital Wing. “When I told Miss Bulstrode to inform her sexual partners, I wasn’t expecting _this_ ,” she muttered to herself. Aloud, she cried, “All right, get in line, you lot! You still have classes to attend!”

            Madame Pomfrey did some diagnostic spells on each one of them. Then she took them individually behind a curtained stall. Draco found out exactly what she was doing when it was his turn.

            “All right, Master Malfoy, drop your trousers and pants,” said, longsuffering, as if she had had to argue people over this request way too many times in the past ten minutes.

            “Sure,” Draco nervously, worried about what Madame Pomfrey would find, but not at all embarrassed about revealing his privates. He undid his belt and his trousers, then slid them down his legs with his boxers. Madame Pomfrey waved her wand around his penis for a moment, then gave it a small poke. It glowed red for a brief second and returned to its normal peachy hue.

            “Mhmm,” the matron said pensively, making a note on a clipboard that lay on the table next to her. “Now turn around and bend over.”

            Draco turned around and bent over. Madam Pomfrey inspected his anus carefully. She did some more diagnostic wand work, then made more notes on her clipboard. Last of all: “Now let me inspect your throat.” This he allowed her to do.

            “Go outside and wait,” Madame Pomfrey said, frowning at her clipboard. So Draco Malfoy pulled up his pants and exited the stall. “Next!”

            Once Madame Pomfrey was done checking all twenty-nine of them, she left the stall with her clipboard and turned to face them all, her face very serious.

            “Every single one of you is infected with syphilis of the genitalia. Most of you also have it in the throat, and about half of you have it in the anus as well. I have each individual diagnosis written down on your prescription slips.”

            The students exchanged worried glances. The gay Third-Year Slytherin raised his hand nervously and said, “Is it permanent?”

            “No,” Madame Pomfrey said in exasperation. “And you should thank your lucky stars for that! Syphilis happens to be a bacterial disease, but if you all had caught a viral STD, it _would_ be permanent.”

            She started pacing back and forth, her arms on her hips and her face stern. “Did none of you think to use protective spells?” The mute silence that followed was more than enough of an answer. “You learned them back in the Third Year!”

            “Actually,” Draco offered sheepishly, “Our year was being so immature when Snape was trying to teach us that he got mad as said we could just go ahead and catch as many diseases as we felt like.”

            “But you still knew the diseases existed!” Madame Pomfrey cried. “You knew that you needed protection! You could have asked your parents, or _me_. I know everything about STDs and unplanned pregnancy that you could possibly care to know.”

            She sighed loudly and stopped pacing. “Every one of you must alert your sexual partners from the past three months and send them up here to be tested.”

            “But Madame Pomfrey!” Lavender said worriedly. “With Draco here, that’s practically the entire school. At least, among the students that aren’t virgins.”

            “Then tell the entire school!” Madame Pomfrey said, irate. “I’ll get Dumbledore to make an announcement this evening. In the meantime, I have a stock of syphilis potion to prescribe to each of you, of which you will take one dose per day before breakfast. It will alleviate the symptoms, but it will not entirely get rid of them. Within a month, the infection should be out of your system entirely. I discourage sexual activity in the meantime. If, however, you cannot possibly contain yourselves, _use protective spells!_ And if you are not 100% sure what those protective spells entail, _come to me_.”

            She ended the lecture in a bad mood. Then she signed off prescriptions of syphilis potion for each one of them, and they left the Hospital Wing just two minutes before the bell rang to end first period.

            Draco headed towards McGonagall’s classroom, cradling his potion in his hands. He had syphilis. It was a disconcerting thought, and for a few minutes he couldn’t help but feel depressed over it. Would the symptoms be so painful as to distract him from his schoolwork? Or maybe they’d simply ruin his Christmas break. And as for limiting his sexual activity for a month…

            Wait! Limiting his sexual activity? That’s exactly what he wanted to do! Now he had the perfect excuse. The homework excuse would only work so often before girls started to get suspicious, but nothing killed suspicion like a good: “I have syphilis. D’you want some?”

            He was at the door to McGonagall’s classroom just as the bell rang. Draco stood to the side and waited for the classroom to empty. The students poured through the doors, chattering animatedly. Near the end of the crowd was Neville Longbottom. Draco ran up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. Neville turned around and did a double take.

            “Hey, Neville,” Draco said breathlessly, “I have some great news!”

            “What?” Neville said, his face pained both from confusion and from seeing the blond-haired Slytherin face-to-face. “What’s going on, Draco?”

            “This way!” Draco dragged Neville down an empty side hall and let go of the Gryffindor boy only when they were out of earshot of anyone else.

            “What is it?” Neville asked again.

            “I have syphilis!” Draco said, grinning.

            Neville huffed furiously and swung his fist at a nearby statue. It creaked a little as it dodged the blow, and Neville’s knuckles ended up halfway inside the wall instead. “That’s _not_ good news, Draco!” he cried, cradling his bruised fist. “If you have syphilis, that probably means I have it, too.”

            “No, you don’t understand,” Draco said quickly. “I’m trying to not have any more sex, and now I have syphilis, and that’s the perfect excuse.”

            “What?” Neville said, trying not to cry. “I don’t understand.”

            “ _I’m trying not to have any more sex_ ,” Draco said slowly and clearly. “Because I… because I think I love you. No, because I _know_ I love you, so I’m trying to stop having sex.”

            “But you were just in a gigantic orgy!” Neville cried passionately. “What do you call _that_?”

            “That was nine days ago,” Draco explained intensely. “And that was probably when I caught the syphilis. Don’t you see? It’s like a punishment, or a sign. Anyway, I haven’t had sex since then, and now that I have syphilis it’ll discourage me from having sex for even longer.”

            “Bloody wonderful,” Neville complained bitterly. “And what about after the symptoms go away? You’ll give in and start fucking girls and boys all over again.”

            “No, I won’t!” Draco promised.

            “Yes, you will!” Neville retorted. “You’re a sex addict! You can’t help yourself. I know you like me, but I can’t be with you! I can’t deal with someone who’s going to cheat on me all the time.”

            “ _But I won’t_ ,” Draco said fiercely. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Neville!”

            Neville was crying by now. He avoided Draco’s gaze as he said, “And what if you can’t stop it?”

            “Look at me, Neville,” Draco commanded him. “ _Look at me!_ ” He took Neville’s face in both hands and turned the Gryffindor’s gaze towards his own. “I love you, Neville. And I know you love me.”

            Another line of tears slid down Neville’s face as he nodded miserably. “Everything logical about me says I shouldn’t,” he whispered around a constricted throat, “but I do.”

            “And that is why I’m going to overcome this,” Draco said. “It seems logical that I’d fall back into my old ways, but if you insist upon following illogic, then so should I. Anyway, I have it all planned out: I’m going to go to sex addiction rehab, even if it has to be a bloody Muggle institution. Then I’m going to totally change my image. I’ll even move if I have to. But I’m going to become an entirely new person for you, Neville.”

            Neville didn’t even try to stop his tears as they dripped in a silent line down his cheeks. Some dropped at his chin, but others clung to his neck and ran down his shirt. He sniffed a little and asked forlornly, “When did you figure all this out?”

            “The no-sex part I decided upon right after the orgy,” Draco said. “As for the rest… well, just right now, actually. But that doesn’t make it any less true! I didn’t know it before today, but catching a disease like syphilis sure puts life into perspective. And now I know: I’ll do anything to win you back. Please tell me I still have a chance.”

 

**********

 

            The term ended that Friday, one week after the play. That evening in the Great Hall the House-elves prepared an extra-special Christmas feast, outdoing themselves from years past. The aroma of meats and pies and steaming vegetables was enough to trigger a collective orgasm, but when combined with the taste and the texture against the tongue, the Hogwarts residents were transported to ecstasy.

            There was very, very little in life that was better than eating an orgytastic feast while savoring the end of term and anticipating a good few weeks of holiday cheer. The students and teachers would have found the evening to be perfect if they could do just that. But of course Dumbledore had to throw a wrench into the workings… again.

            Halfway through the feast, he turned to Professor McGonagall and said, “I think I want to make an announcement.”

            McGonagall nearly choked on her tripe and instantly waved her hands at her boss. “No, Dumbledore! If you’re thinking about making a speech about how much we’ve learned over the course of this term and how the experience of putting on your play has opened all our eyes, we don’t want to hear it! Please, let us enjoy our feast without interruption.”

            “I didn’t think of that, actually,” Dumbledore said, amused. “It’s a good idea, though.” He chuckled when the Transfiguration professor turned bright red and coughed out a mouthful of food onto her plate. “Come, my dear Minnie, ickle Albus is just being a big old tease! I’ll forgo that speech—but I _still_ have an important announcement to make.”

            So Dumbledore stood up and tapped his goblet with his fork. The glass broke. He hastily shoved the remnants into Hagrid’s lap and stole the half-giant’s goblet, pretending as if nothing had happened. This time, however, the students could not pretend along with him. A strange feeling of déjà vu stole stealthily upon them as they remembered the morning Dumbledore had announced his decision to put on the play. None of them could explain why, but they all knew without a doubt that Dumbledore’s announcement was going to turn Hogwarts on its head yet again.

            “At the beginning of this semester,” Dumbledore began, “a few weeks before we started production on our excellent play, I went to St. Mungo’s for my yearly checkup. It proceeded as smoothly as my past checkups, and the Healers took care of me in the way that only a truly proficient Healer can.”

            Nobody wanted to tell Dumbledore he was rambling. Nobody even wanted to open their mouths.

            “Anyhow, a few days later they called me back to St. Mungo’s for another checkup, at which they made me take a series of tests, which I admit were rather difficult. The next day the Healer called me back to St. Mungo’s _again_ , this time to expose their findings.

            “I have been diagnosed with senile dementia. This means that I am going crazy with old age, and in somewhere between five to ten years, I will most likely be dead.”

            Nothing could ever have the effect this pronouncement had. The entire hall emptied of its festive cheer, leaving behind a stupefied pall so great that not even a Death Eater attack during the war could have created it. The only person in the entire room who looked in the least bit cheerful was Dumbledore himself, who was grinning like a loon. It didn’t help that he now officially _was_ a loon. In fact, that made it a million fucking times worse.

            “The situation standing as it is, this shall be my last year as headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I shall spend the second half of the year training our new headmaster for the job.”

            Then Dumbledore, still standing, fell silent and clasped his hands in front of him, grinning happily at everyone. Nobody grinned back; instead, they stared in frank disbelief at their headmaster, wondering how in hell this was actually happening. Then they turned to each other and began whispering in hushed tones.

            “We should have known!” Hermione breathed in shock, her eyes brimming with tears. “He lets us swear without docking points, he’s much more obscene than he ever was, and he even went naked during his trial! Oh dear Merlin, how come we never guessed?”

            “But Hermione,” Harry said, also at a loss for volume, “Dumbledore’s always been crazy! How the fuck could we have known the difference?”

            “So wait,” Gregory said slowly, each word weighed like a stone around his neck. “We just acted in a play… directed by a man with senile dementia.”

            “I know,” Ginny said morosely. “Everything makes a whole lot more sense now, doesn’t it?”

            Up at the staff table, the professors gaped at Dumbledore in sheer shock, none of them saying a word. Fat tears leaked into Hagrid’s beard as he realized that his favorite man in the whole world had hardly more than a decade left to live. McGonagall looked too stunned to even move. Snape betrayed the least emotion; beyond the extreme arch in his eyebrow, his face looked surly as it always did.

The headmaster himself spread his arms wide and swayed purposefully where he stood. “Come, come, my sweetie pies, there’s no need for the hushed voices!” he cried. “I announced my official insanity, not my death. Now be happy for me: I have five to ten years in which I can do absolutely anything, blame it all on my dementia, and not be held accountable! How many of you can say the same about yourselves?”

            In the seat next to Dumbledore’s sat his good friend Connie. Of all the people in the room, she was the first (and perhaps the only person) whose initial shock was slowly fading into a smile. “Does that mean,” she said, “that we can have sex in public and blame it on our old age?”

            “This is why I keep you around, my most excellent Connie!” Dumbledore said joyfully. “We shall do exactly that, and what’s more, I am now free to say anything that comes to mind, no matter how obscene it is. I shall abuse that freedom until it accuses me of domestic violence. And then I shall abuse it some more!”

            He turned to the student body and said, “I beseech all of you: Do not be somber over my pronouncement. I encourage you—no, I _require_ you—to make frequent jokes about my insanity, and at the end of each week I will award house points to the student whose joke is the most tasteless. The only requirements are that you cannot repeat a joke and that you have to say it directly to my face. I mean, this is my impending death we’re talking about! And after that is the Next Great Adventure—I find myself hard-pressed to think of anything more titillating that that.”

            “I’d even say it’s better than sex,” Connie ventured.

            “It’ll most definitely be better than sex!” Dumbledore said emphatically. “That’s not to say anything against sex, of course. In fact, I have a very important request to make in regards to sex. At the end of my life, when my short-term memory is so shot that I can’t remember why I’m necking my good friend Connie, I request that you keep me in a constant state of nakedness, so that I can at least remember to have some more sex before I go. And if I can’t even remember that, then at least we can rub privates. After all, the next life might not include the glorious act of copulation.”

            The students were goggling at their headmaster, too shocked by the big announcement to properly process anything that came after it. Some of the younger students even looked quite frightened. A Gryffindor First-Year scuttled over to Hermione and sobbed quietly into her leg. The teachers, meanwhile, pinched the bridge of their noses and put their faces into their hands, all of them too embarrassed for words. It wasn’t that Dumbledore was trying to embarrass them—but he was being so ridiculous that it was embarrassing just to be sitting at the same table as him. It was almost to the point that they were embarrassed to share the same genus and species.

            “He really seems to be overacting,” Ron whispered to Hermione. “Do you think it’s because he’s afraid of death, so he’s trying to make a big joke out of it?”

            “No,” Hermione breathed, staring in wonder as her brain worked double-speed to process everything Dumbledore had just said. “No, he’s always looked forward to death… I think the real answer is that he’s finally lost it.”

            “So yes—death!” Dumbledore cried happily. “The next great adventure. Now, you all are listening to me and thinking: _Hmm, my headmaster says that death is better than sex. Maybe I should try it myself_. I beseech you all not to try it just yet! I am not at all condoning suicide as the ultimate high, nor am I suggesting that life gradually becomes more worthless until death finally seems like a joy in comparison. That is false. If you live it right, life ages like a fine wine. But at the same time, as you learn to love life more, you also learn to embrace death…”

            “Uh oh, he’s moralizing now,” Harry said.

            “Which is my cue to ignore him,” Gregory said, chuckling.

            “Yeah,” Ron said. “Wow. Just look at him! You’d think I’d feel sorry for a man who knows he only has a few years left to live, but when he takes it _that well_ …”

            “Let’s be happy for him, then,” Luna said reasonably. “You know that Cockmice also age like fine wine. The Heebripple’s talked to a few of them, and so I know exactly how Dumbledore feels right now. I wish him all the happiness in the afterworld.”

            “WAIT!” This cry came from the Slytherin table, where Draco sat alone. Dumbledore stopped speaking, and the students stopped with him. “Dumbledore,” Draco continued amongst silence, “you say there’s going to be a new headmaster. Who?”

            “Ah, an excellent question, Master Malfoy,” Dumbledore said. “Yes, well… I’ve talked to some of my staff recently. Our own Professor McGonagall, it seems, is very attached to her Transfiguration post and would rather keep the position as Deputy Headmistress in the case of my retirement. Professor Snape, meanwhile, is too biased to make a good headmaster. No offense, sweet Severus.”

            Professor Snape glared at the headmaster, though his offense was not so much over the slight as it was over being called “sweet.”

            “And so I’ve come a decision. Our new headmaster shall be one of the current school governors.”

            Try as they might, the students couldn’t suppress a groan at this information. “But the governors are so lame!” Dean complained, loud enough that Dumbledore heard “They don’t do anything except vote on useless rules, and when a real decision comes along, they run behind Dumbledore like a bunch of fucking pussies! If one of them becomes headmaster, he’ll have nothing to run behind and pussy-fuck when the shit hits the fan.”

            “True, my dear Master Thomas, very true,” Dumbledore said, completely ignoring the profanity. “But you speak of only eleven of the governors. The choice I have made is a good one, and this man fully deserves the new title.”

            “Uh oh,” Hermione said softly. She glanced knowingly at Ron, but he simply shrugged his shoulders.

            “He is a good friend of mine, and he has had quite a few years of experience as a school governor. On top of that, he’s the only person who took an active role in the PTA this past month, while still supporting the students’ rights to produce our play.”

            At the staff table, Flitwick leaned over to Professor McGonagall and whispered fearfully, “I can only think of one man who even attended those PTA meetings!”

            “I didn’t go to any of them myself,” McGonagall whispered back, just as uneasily, “so I wouldn’t know. But I still think I know who Dumbledore is talking about…”

            “The new headmaster,” Dumbledore announced grandly, “shall be none other than Xenophilius Lovegood!”

            The students looked at each, their eyebrows slowly disappearing behind their bangs and their jaws slowly dropping into their necks. Everybody recognized the name Lovegood, thanks to Luna’s distinctly dotty personality, and they all knew better than to think that her parent might be any less loony than she was. The thought of having an adult version of Luna as headmaster was a bit too much to bear, especially on top of the rest of tonight’s bombshells. Half the student body turned to each other with panic-stricken glances. A few students stifled moans, and one of Luna’s dorm mates even had to dab a few tears from her eyes.

            Luna was the first to react. She jumped to her feet and clapped gleefully. “Yay!” she said. “My daddy’s going to be headmaster!”

            Hermione looked a little scared as her gaze switched between Dumbledore and Luna’s matching grins. She had grown a lot more accustomed to Luna’s odd ways since they’d met two years ago, but accepting the Ravenclaw’s odd beliefs hadn’t gone further than ignoring what she said. Accepting her dad as the headmaster of Hogwarts was a bit too much for Hermione, and she couldn’t help overreacting. She leaned over to Ron and hissed, “This is crazy! Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is an educational institution. It can’t be run by the editor of _The Quibbler_! Next year we’re going to be learning about Pittlepoofballs and Crumple-stooped Poop Loopers while reading Ancient Runes upside down! What kind of twisted logic was behind this decision?”

            “Dumbledore’s,” Ron whispered back, knowing that it was Hermione’s logic that was rebelling and that she didn’t truly mean everything she was saying. “And let’s face it: If one crazy headmaster could do so much for our school, I’m guessing another crazy one will serve us just as well.”

            “Yeah,” Harry said, being quiet so that his girlfriend wouldn’t hear him. “At least Mr. Lovegood isn’t _officially_ insane.”

            “Not yet, at least,” said Luna, who had heard every word.


End file.
